No Man's Land: East German Drama After the Wall (Contemporary Theatre Review)

CONTEMPORARY THEATRE REVIEW AN INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL Editor in Chief: Franc Chamberlain, Nene College, Northampton, UK. Editorial Board: Rufus Collins (Netherlands), Leon Gitelman (Russia), Malcolm Knight (UK), Jacques Lecoq (France), Judith Malina (USA), Neville Shulman (UKT, Anatoly M.Smeliansky (Russia), Maria Delgado (UK). Aims and Scope Contemporary Theatre Review is an international journal concerned with all aspects of theatre—from text-based drama and current developments worldwide, to work of an interdisciplinary or cross-cultural nature. The journal includes primary material, production notes, documents and interviews as well as research. Contemporary Theatre Review complements the companion Contemporary Theatre Studies book series. Notes for contributors can be found at the back of the journal.

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Introduction David W. Robinson

The political events of annus mirabilis 1989 marked a rare turning point in world history, but the significance of the year for German literary history is unique. As the 40-year-old German Democratic Republic ceased to exist, so too did the special circumstances which had fostered a literature separate from and in competition with that of the Federal Republic of Germany. A new period of literary history was delimited almost overnight: GDR literature now was something to be examined as a whole, completed cultural movement. At the same time, the literary traditions of the GDR have continued to influence the contemporary cultural scene, often in ways that are only gradually becoming clear. This collection of essays, memoirs, and plays represents an early attempt to assess and reassess one of the GDR’s richest cultural domains: its theater. More than any other artistic form, theater embodied and fulfilled the GDR’s ambition to surpass the West in cultural as well as political consciousness. The presence and influence of Bertolt Brecht in the early 1950s—the formative years of the East German state and its cultural policies—guaranteed that its theater would command world attention, setting a pattern of innovation and social critique that would outlast the GDR itself. The Communist authorities for their part regarded theater as chief among the other arts in its potential for public education and personal transformation; accordingly, they devoted sizable resources to it, creating a multitiered theatrical establishment that made classic and modern stage works available (at negligible ticket prices) to a public extending far beyond the traditional theatrical center of Berlin, and to all strata of society. By the 1980s, GDR dramatists such as Heiner Müller and Christoph Hein were acknowledged to be among the most important dramatic voices of the German stage, with Müller in particular acclaimed as Germany’s preeminent postmodern playwright. The contributors to this collection analyze and document the roots, development, disruption, and future prospects of one of the 20th century’s important stage traditions—and today, surely, the most endangered one. The unfolding of GDR literary and stage history must be understood in light of East and West German political history, to which it remains securely tied. As noted above, the original impetus for a distinctively Eastern theater was almost wholly political: it was to be socialist theater. Of course, as the reigning definitions of

2 DAVID W. ROBINSON

socialism changed, so too did the demands placed on playwrights, directors, and actors. The major phases of GDR cultural-political history provide a context and principle of organization for this highly varied collection. 1 Late Stalinism vs. Brecht From the founding of the GDR in 1949, through Stalin’s death in 1953, and up until Khrushchev’s “secret speech” at the 20th Soviet Party Congress in 1956, GDR cultural policy was largely dictated by Soviet policy, in particular the crudely didactic, anti-Modernist doctrines of Socialist Realism. Along with advocates of innovation in the other arts, Brecht fought for a broader understanding of socialist art until his death in 1956. Christoph Funke (“The Brechtian Legacy of Theater in the German Democratic Republic”) outlines Brecht’s influence and its consequences in later years. Joachim Lucchesi (“From Questioning to Condemnation: The Debate over Brecht/Dessau’s 1951 Opera Lucullus”) uses hitherto unavailable archival material to shed light on one of the formative episodes of GDR cultural policy, and Carl Weber (“Periods of Precarious Adjustment: Some Notes on the Theater’s Situation at the Beginning and after the End of the Socialist German State”) recounts his personal experiences during the same controversy and in the subsequent one concerning Hanns Eisler’s Johann Faustus. 2 De-Stalinization From 1956 to 1964, a thaw in Soviet Bloc cultural policy coincided with the emergence in the GDR of a vibrant, indigenous literature. The most important political event in the GDR during this period—the building of the Berlin Wall— helped more than hindered this cultural flowering by stabilizing the economy, abating the atmosphere of political crisis, and perforce redirecting the attention of intellectuals to internal concerns. Among dramatists, Heiner Müller established himself as heir to the Brechtian stage tradition. Jost Hermand (“Discursive Contradictions: Questions About Heiner Müller’s ‘Autobiography’”) assesses Müller’s own recent account of his career during these years and afterward. Ulrich Profitlich and Frank Stucke (“‘Only limited utopias are realizable’: On a Motif in the Plays of Peter Hacks”) survey the career of another representative playwright who rose to prominence during this period. 3 Retrenchment, critique, thaw The end of de-Stalinization under Brezhnev slowed but failed to stop cultural liberalization in the GDR. Müller and others were punished and vilified to varying degrees, but pressure from critical authors grew throughout the late 1960s and mid-1970s. Where open criticism of the regime was impossible, coded criticism in such forms as reworked classical myth became a stock-in-trade of the GDR stage, as Profitlich and Stucke show in their discussion of Hacks. Upon assuming power in

INTRODUCTION 3

1971, Erich Honecker announced that GDR literature was to be free of “taboos” and thereby initiated a significant (if short-lived) cultural thaw. (The GDR was courting world opinion in a successful effort to gain admittance to the United Nations, diplomatic recognition from the NATO powers, and somewhat normalized relations with West Germany.) The early 1970s saw the emergence of the young dramatist Christoph Hein, who would become a major presence by the end of the decade; his distinctive form of political/artistic engagement is discussed by Anthony Meech (“Christoph Hein: ‘Engagement’ in the German Democratic Republic). Ann Rider’s edited interview with actress Walfriede Schmitt (“‘Not Peasant Stew! Real Theater for the People’: Walfriede Schmitt Talks About East German Theater”) provides an insider’s account of theatrical life extending from this period to the present. 4 The Biermann Affair and aftermath The tentative and uneven liberalization of the early Honecker years came to an abrupt end in late 1976 when balladeer Wolf Biermann, a left-wing critic of the regime, was refused reentry to the GDR after a Western concert appearance and stripped of his citizenship. While the leadership of the Writers’ Union endorsed the government’s action, many of the GDR’s most prominent writers (including playwrights Heiner Müller and Volker Braun, novelist Christa Wolf, and poet Stephan Hermlin) signed an open letter of protest. The subsequent governmental harassment of the signatories and their allies drove dozens of talented writers, directors, actors, etc. into Western exile over the next several years. Christoph Funke’s article recounts the impact of the Biermann Affair on the East German stage. 5 From Glasnost to the Wende The 80s saw a very gradual loosening of cultural controls, though nothing as dramatic as in the early 70s; meanwhile, external political events again became a driving force for internal policy. With the rise of Mikhail Gorbachev to power in 1985, the Soviet Union embarked on internal reforms in the direction of democratization, striking terror in the hearts of a GDR leadership already unsettled by the Solidarity movement in Poland. The GDR distanced itself from the Soviet policies of Glasnost and Perestroika, while its citizenry became increasingly restive. Rising expectations for reforms and unprecedented outrage over electoral fraud was met with total governmental intransigence (Tienanmen Square being cited with admiration in some quarters as the “Chinese Solution”) , leading by the spring of 1989 to a rapid deterioration of public morale. The newly opened border between Austria and Hungary provoked a flood of illegal emigration reminiscent of the months before the Berlin Wall was built, and as the summer wore on, the economy faltered, bled of its work force. Meanwhile, intellectuals and artists formed the GDR’s first independent opposition group, the New Forum, and churches and theaters became hotbeds of anti-government protest. The situation climaxed during the GDR’s 40th anniversary celebrations, when Gorbachev let it be known that he would no longer back the Honecker regime with arms to quell internal disturbances. Shortly

4 DAVID W. ROBINSON

thereafter, Honecker was forced from power when his own lieutenants proved unwilling to use force to put down the peaceful protest demonstrations that had been filling the streets of Berlin, Leipzig, and other cities. The Wende, or turning point, culminated (symbolically, at least) in the opening of the East German border on November 9, 1989. It was during this eventful year that Christoph Hein’s satiric comedy The Knights of Round Table was produced and quickly seized upon as a critique of the Communist regime; the play, published here for the first time in English, was soon canonized (correctly or not) as the archetypal Wende-play, a process discussed by David W. Robinson (“Christoph Hein Between Ideologies, or, Where Do The Knights of the Round Table Go After Camelot Falls?”) and Phil McKnight (“Iphigenia, King Arthur, and the East German State after Unification”). 6 Reaction, unification, recession The New Forum’s dream of a liberal socialist state independent from West Germany was soon overwhelmed by resurgent nationalist sentiment (the Eastern protest marchers’ slogan changed from “We Are The People!” to “We Are One People!”) and by electioneering from the better-financed Western political parties. Revelations from newly opened Stasi or secret police files aggravated a mood of disgust with the old regime. Against this background, West German journalists and cultural commentators began attacking the artistic and moral integrity of leading East German writers, among others. The first round of politically-motivated criticism was aimed at Christa Wolf’s short novel What’s Left, but it soon spread to Müller as well, aided by revelations of both writers’ past contacts with the Stasi. These attacks on the oncerespected grand figures of GDR culture set off a debate that came to be known as the Literaturstreit, the literature quarrel, involving writers, critics, and media figures in both Germanies. The history and significance of this debate are analyed by Katrin Sieg (‘The Poets and the Power: Heiner Müller, Christa Wolf, and the German Literaturstreit”). While revisionist critics were busy condemning what they had formerly praised, or else declaring that there had been no such thing as East German art, the artists remained active, though in many cases distracted by the pace of political change that culminated in October, 1990, with German unification. Marc Silberman’s translation of Jochen Berg’s post-Wende play Strangers in the Night provides a fascinating look at how the Brecht/Müller dramatic tradition has survived the fall of the GDR. Marna King (“Viewer Beware: Reception of East German Theater”) surveys critical reaction to recent German theatrical productions, raising important questions about the differences between Eastern and Western audiences’ experiences and expectations of drama, as well as the ways in which Eastern directors are exploiting the conditions of the unified German stage. Rebecca Rovit (“Towards German Unity: Performance within the Threshold”) brings a performance studies perspective to bear on the transformations taking place in Berlin in both the theaters and the streets. The most recent external force to affect the German (and particularly the East German) stage is the economic recession that has settled over the unified state. Unofficial estimates placed unemployment in the “New Federal States” at around one-third during the difficult early years of privatization and industrial reconstruction,

INTRODUCTION 5

a period with no end in sight as this is being written in mid-1994. The inevitable reduction in theater subsidies which followed the demise of the GDR’s generouslyfunded theatrical bureaucracy has been sharply accelerated by the economic crisis; more recently, even Western theaters have been shut down in cost-saving measures. Phil McKnight (“Iphigenia, King Arthur, and the East German Stage after Unification”) gauges the recent mood and assesses the future of a theater community plagued by budget cutbacks and political malaise.1 Special thanks go to Marc Silberman for his assistance in the early stages of this project, and to the Department of English and Philosophy at Georgia Southern University for its logistical and financial support. And finally, thanks to Wade Krueger for his proofreading help, and to Caren Town for everything else. David W. Robinson Georgia Southern University

1

For a comprehensive study of the historic role played by theater in GDR society, see Ralph Hammerthaler, “Die Position des Theaters in der DDR,” in Theater in der DDR: Chronik and Positionen, edited by Christa Hasche, Traute Schölling, and Joachim Fiebach (Berlin: Henschel, 1994), pp. 151–261.

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The Activist Legacy of Theater in the German Democratic Republic Christoph Funke

GDR theater was shaped from the beginning by a strongly antifascist, progressive intent, working on the assumption that people could be turned into socialist “New Men” by exposure to positive role models. Yet it soon became apparent that the GDR regime was really interested in holding power, not in social innovation—as Brecht found. Brecht nonetheless left a lasting impression on GDR theater, which clung forever after to his idealistic vision of an intellectual, probing, imaginative theater. A vibrant theatrical establishment grew up not just in Berlin, but throughout the GDR. The theater became a place of social comment and critique, a role which continued through and after the collapse of the GDR in 1989–90. This living “interventionist” tradition, directly traceable to Brecht, is now endangered by a wave of German theater closures. KEY WORDS: Brecht, Hein, Braun, Müller, Plenzdorf, theater closures The critical, definitive concepts for theater in the German Democratic Republic were Enlightenment and Reason. After the victory over fascism—i.e., the total defeat of Nazi Germany in 1945—the central aesthetic assumption in the Soviet occupation zone and, since 1949, the GDR, was that art must fulfill a pedagogical function. Reeducation was called for, rejection of fascism, orientation toward a rational, peaceful way of life. That people could be educated through exposure to positive role models was an article of faith; the experience of art could be used to engender correct, ethical modes of behavior which, of course, would be useful in the building of socialism. The demands placed on theater were great from the start, since this is where people actually stand on a stage playing to other people. If virtuous human beings, genuine heroes, stood on the stage, then the maximum possible number of people among the audience would be moved to virtue, to heroic deeds, to passionate work, and to exalted love. And because this point of departure initially seemed beyond ethical reproach, because the “New Man” really was desirable and needed, many theater artists were in fact won over to the ideal of a militant, realistic theater. The theater of the GDR thus began as the consequence of a simple theory of representation: everday reality and artistic reflection had to be as congruent as

8 CHRISTOPH FUNKE

possible with one another. (One of the most important dramatists in this vein was Friedrich Wolf.) But as it became apparent that the GDR’s ruling party, the SED, was less concerned with the “New Man” than with hearing its power, wisdom, and infallibility praised, and that this Communist Party arrogated to itself the right to pass judgment on art and to permit or forbid it according to whim, conflicts broke out between artists and cultural politicians. The first and most significant person to run up against the small-minded realism doctrine was Bertolt Brecht. Following his 1949 return to Berlin from American exile, he engaged in a long struggle for his own theater. The Berliner Ensemble had, indeed, already been founded by Helene Weigel in 1949, but it was not until 1954 that Brecht was able to occupy the theater on the Schiffbauerdamm and give his Berliner Ensemble a home. There were vehement arguments with the comrades: in a regime so preoccupied with pedagogy, the refusal of Brecht’s Mother Courage to learn anything from her experiences was regarded as a near-provocation; Brecht had to alter his Lucullus opera; and he passionately defended Hanns Eisler, whose Faustus libretto had run afoul of narrow-minded Marxist dogmatism.1 Almost every Berliner Ensemble production became embroiled in violent controversy, whether it was Goethe’s Urfaust or the new play Katzgraben by Erwin Strittmatter. In this way Brecht became an example of what cunning, what sly intelligence, what strength was necessary to wring compromises from the functionaries, to neutralize them in discussions, or to take literally their lofty declarations of intent. The poet could only endure this so long; his early death in 1956 was not least a result of the ceaseless disputes, coupled with his deep shock over Stalin’s crimes, which were revealed to the whole world at the 20th Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. Brecht and the Berliner Ensemble nonetheless exerted a lasting influence on the theater in the GDR. The dramatist had subordinated his aesthetic labors to enlightened reason. He sought the self-aware, self-possessed man with his fate in his hands and with insight into the historical mechanism, the complexities of the class struggle. He developed a theater that raised thinking to a delight, that made the winning of insight a source of sensual pleasure, that shunned naturalism and pinned its hopes on exactitude—the exactitude of depicted situation, of gesture, of the word. The productions of the Berliner Ensemble were radiant, lively, and deft, free from pomposity and sentimental ballast. The Berliner Ensemble was pursuing a magnificent vision: a future built of intelligent, curious, imaginatively gifted people, a realm of creative freedom and boundless fulfillment of the individual. As the world-wide reputation of Brecht’s theater grew, its connection with the reality of the GDR diminished. The dream was persecuted, the vision—of reason, intelligence, independence—which had its place on the stage had long since disappeared from everyday life. And the theater of the GDR would henceforth inhabit this split between ambitiously humanistic goals and wretched social reality. Enforced affirmation of the prevailing situation and support for the SED’s ideological line coexisted for decades with increasingly resolute attempts to influence

1 See the essay by Joachim Lucchesi in this issue of CTR for a discussion of the Lucullus debate, and the essay by Carl Weber for an account of the debate around Eisler’s Faustus. (Ed.)

ACTIVIST THEATER 9

the situation, to change it. Conservative theater directors (Karl Kayser in Leipzig, Hanns Anselm Perten in Rostock, Maxim Vallentin in Berlin at the Maxim-GorkyTheater), dramatists, and dramaturges clung to a belief in Socialist Realism, while younger ones such as Gerhard Wolfram and Horst Schönemann in Halle strove to break new ground, and had the courage not to conform, but to illuminate critically their everyday reality by posing questions instead of handing out answers. Another distinguishing mark of theater in the GDR was that although “Berlin, Capital of the GDR”2 remained the undisputed theatrical center, important influences constantly streamed in from the great provincial theaters. Through the efforts of important members of the theater community, varying focal points of innovative theatrical work arose which challenged the artistic supremacy of the East Berlin stages. Only a few examples can be sketched here. During the 1960s, the work of Artistic Director Gerhard Wolfram and director Horst Schönemann turned the Landestheater Halle into the most vital and exciting stage in the GDR. Their attempt to take audiences beyond mere artistic contemplation and, with them, to try out the possibilities of creative intervention in living reality still followed from belief in a humane socialism. Yet the dramatists Armin Stolper and Ulrich Plenzdorf (author of the controversial New Sorrows of Young W.) were already turning out plays that angrily broke all bounds of agreement with the policies of the SED. After a decade in Berlin (at the Deutsches Theater), Wolfram and Schönemann carried on with their work in Dresden, transforming the State Theater there into the GDR’s theatrical Fountain of Youth throughout the 1980s. Wolfgang Engel worked there, Christoph Hein and Volker Braun were produced there—mostly in the face of bitter opposition by functionaries of the SED. Other theatrical centers outside Berlin were also of great significance. Christoph Schroth awakened the theater in Schwerin from its Snow White sleep and, throwing his theater open to playfulness and experience, produced daring, youthfully impetuous stagings of classic plays. The repertory was chosen as a vehicle for reflecting on revolution. With Heiner Müller and Volker Braun (after Brecht) as the most important authors, complex theatrical evenings would explode cramped historical consciousness by considering the tragedy (yes, the tragedy) of revolution. Müller, Braun, Hein, and Stolper played a decisive role in the turnabout of GDR theater: they attacked naive beliefs about the inevitability of human progress, the capacity of socialist revolution to solve every problem, and the validity of the Communist Party’s pronouncements. Schroth’s accomplishments in Schwerin were not an isolated case; theaters in various parts of the GDR were sites of courageous, first-rate work all through the seventies and eighties. Gerhard Meyer’s theater in Karl-Marx-Stadt (now Chemnitz once more) was a talent factory for actors and directors; in Weimar there was director Fritz Bennewitz (known for numerous productions in foreign countries, particularly India), in Potsdam, director Peter Kupke. The theater world of Berlin also experienced tremendous upheaval. The directing career of Alexander Lang began under the leadership of Gerhard Wolfram at the Deutsches Theater, and Artistic Director Albert Hetterle of the Maxim-Gorki-Theater championed the officially

2 The designation of East Berlin by this omnipresent slogan was meant as a challenge to the official Allied view that all of Berlin was still under Allied occupation. (Ed.)

10 CHRISTOPH FUNKE

disfavored Russian dramatist Mikhail Schatrov, as well as Ulrich Plenzdorf after his fall from grace, and the always suspiciously watched Volker Braun. Hetterle also discovered Thomas Langhoff, the current artistic director of the Deutsches Theater and a towering figure among German theater directors. Nonetheless, it cannot be forgotten that the theater community of the GDR also suffered terrible defeats, that it could not avoid accommodations with power, and that not a few of its members were abjectly servile. Widely differing reactions followed the so-called “Biermann Affair” of 1976, when the singer-songwriter Wolf Biermann (a friend of Marxist-apostate philosopher Robert Havemann) was denied reentry to the GDR after giving a concert in the Federal Republic of Germany. His expulsion was protested by writers such as Volker Braun, Heiner Müller, Ulrich Plenzdorf, Thomas Brasch, and other notables. The Party put out a call to the faithful, and many artists who had once been expelled because of their work now allowed themselves to be misused once again, among them the actor and singer Ernst Busch. But it proved impossible to patch up relations among the artists of the land. In particular, directors, actors, and set designers forsook the GDR—among many others, actor Armin Mueller-Stahl, actress Angelica Domrose, actress Jutta Hoffmann, actress Hilmar Thate, set designer Andreas Reinhardt, director Matthias Langhoff, and actress Katharina Thalbach. Brecht director Peter Palitzsch had already gone after the building of the Wall in 1961, and now, with the collapse of Ruth Berghaus’s directorship at the Berliner Ensemble, directors Einar Schleef and Bernd K.Tragelehn followed. Many others as well departed the “socialist” German state. Anyone who wished to realize Brecht’s “interventionist” theater in the GDR had to withstand constant political wave motion. Every time the theaters made a hard-won gain in freedom, the Party struck back with new dogmatic restrictions and pressured people to leave the country—particularly the gifted ones who were unwilling to conform. But the reservoir of such gifted, rebellious theater people continually renewed itself. It was for this reason that in 1989, the theater community of the GDR was able to become a motor of social change. Theaters in Berlin, Dresden, KarlMarx-Stadt, and Schwerin became places of discussion and argument, of questioning and protest. As in the similar case of the churches, these theaters and others had long since drawn together people who shared a desire for a different, humane socialism. In the theater, artists and audiences together found a place removed from the Communists’ absolute claim to power. Performance and its reception were governed by special rules: the secret but steadily more open understanding, the increasingly unmistakable critique, of the vicious degeneration of socialist ideals. In October, 1989, a guest performance in Berlin of Christoph Schroth’s Schwerin production of Schiller’s William Tell turned into a manifestation of the will to freedom. After responding to the performance with fiery jubilation, the audience at the Volksbühne passionately debated whether the tyrannicide represented in the play was just. On November 4, 1989, the Berlin theater community organized a massive protest demonstration on East Berlin’s Alexanderplatz. (Other theater-inspired actions took place in Dresden, Frankfurt/Oder, Erfurt, Wittenberg, Rudolstadt, and Schwedt.) Like the Monday demonstrations ocurring in Leipzig, this demonstration, where half a million emancipated people found their voices, sounded the death knell of the GDR. The ruling Party’s monstrous apparatus of power and repression collapsed on itself, and an important share of the credit belonged to theater people.

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They now face, in reunified Germany, different and very difficult tasks. The need for theater must be defended against relentless efforts by city, state, and federal governments to save money. The structures of German theater are an object of debate. The question remains to be answered how (and whether) a theater committed to a comprehensive repertory schedule3 can be kept running without becoming commercialized. In Berlin, several theaters have closed, among them some very important ones with long and culturally obligating traditions. At this moment (October 1993), the abandonment of the West Berlin Freie Volksbühne (where Erwin Piscator worked from 1963 to 1966 and where Rolf Hochhuth’s Der Stellvertreter opened in 1963) is the latest of a series of closures that includes the East Berlin Theater im Palast [der Republik] (in the time of the GDR a lively contemporary theater under the leadership of Vera Oelschlegel), the West Berlin Schiller-Theater (which, under Artistic Director Boleslav Barlog, had seen productions by Beckett, and was the largest theater in either Germany), and its associated theaters, the Schloßpark-Theater and the Werkstatt des Schiller-Theaters. German theaters have long been unique in how they fulfilled their historical task of focusing on cultural creativity. This was true also in the GDR. That precedent should be enough to assure the future work of this theater tradition.

3 Theaters in the GDR maintained a revolving repertory of productions rather than engaging in long production runs. The high expense of such an arrangement, in terms of manpower and properties, will be obvious. (Ed.)

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From Trial to Condemnation: The Debate over Brecht/Dessau’s 1951 Opera Lucullus1 Joachim Lucchesi

The controversy surrounding the 1951 Bertolt Brecht/Paul Dessau opera The Trial of Lucullus was typical as an example of the decision-making process in cultural matters in the early GDR, and decisive for subsequent cultural-political policy. The anti-war opera was a victim of the Soviet-directed campaign against modern trends in art, lumped together as “Formalism.” Brecht and Dessau, committed both politically to the GDR and artistically to the 20th century avant-garde, agreed to revise their work to make it more politically acceptable. The incident illustrates the inadequacy of simple distinctions between “state art” and “opposition art.” Historians of GDR culture and politics need to develop subtler categories and analyses before they can address present-day changes. KEY WORDS: music, opera, Lucullus, Brecht, Dessau, Formalism What does remain?2 Regardless of how one poses this question—with resignation, transfigured sentimentality, sober criticism, or provocative scorn—it is the question most often heard in the gray zone of change between social systems. This holds especially for Germany, where, as Bertolt Brecht observed after his return from American exile, the cellars over which new houses were erected had never been cleaned out. On March 17, 1951—eighteen months into the existence of the German Democratic Republic—a major artistic event took place and a cultural policy was born. As the Fifth Conference of the Central Committee of the SED drew to an end, Secretary for Art Questions Hans Lauter delivered a speech that would have far-

1 Portions of this essay first appeared in German in the Forward to Das Verhör in der Oper. Thanks go to Dr. Michael Braz for his help with the translation of musical terms. (Ed.) 2 The question alludes to the title of Christa Wolf’s controversial post-Wall novel Was bleibt (1990). See Katrin Sieg’s essay in this collection. (Ed.)

14 JOACHIM LUCCHESI

reaching effects on the cultural politics of the coming years. On the evening of the same day, an internationally observed event took place in the East Berlin State Opera: the world premiere of The Trial of Lucullus by Bertolt Brecht and Paul Dessau. Were it possible to focus the music history of this year to one burning point, the example of this opera would not be merely the prototype of the cultural political situation of the time. With its long and complicated production history, the opera is simultaneously embedded in a background of fascism, exile, Cold War, and the founding of the two German states. Brecht was already in Swedish exile in 1939 when he began work on Lucullus, first conceiving of it as a radio play. Written at about the same time as Brecht’s other antiwar play, Mother Courage, the play was a warning against impending historical catastrophe. With the circumspection of a writer fully conscious of his uncertain status as an exile, Brecht merely feigned an interest in the historical material he used for his plot. As was so often the case, his concerns were urgently contemporary, his recourse to history revealing itself as an anticipation of coming disasters. The rather mild depiction of the Roman gourmet and general Lucullus, the man who brought the cherry tree out of Asia, hardly masks the horrific carnage suffered by both conquerors and conquered. Moreover, Brecht desired a certain proximity to the German triumphator Adolf Hitler, a connoisseur not of fine food, but of Richard Wagner’s operas. In his early drafts Brecht had in mind a tenor buffo for the role of Lucullus, hoping to evoke associations with Julius Lieban (Bertolt-Brecht-Archiv, 622/2), a currently famous Wagner soloist with the City Opera of BerlinCharlottenburg. Yet as his own censor, Brecht feared that the radio play text had reached the limit of what could still be said. He would be proved right. A production for Swedish Radio (with music planned by composer Hilding Rosenberg) never took place: Brecht had obviously exceeded the pain threshold of the radio corporation. Swedish neutrality demanded consideration for German sensitivity. As a stopgap, a troop of German emigré actors was enlisted to produce the rejected play. The concept was seductively equivocal: the radio play would be changed into a shadow play, with the shades of Hell who come forth as witnesses appearing literally as shadows. Brecht, however, who was adept at marketing his plays, was not satisfied with a marginal performance in Sweden. The first broadcast of the play (under the title Lucullus in Court and without music) took place on May 12, 1940, over Radio Beromünster in Switzerland. In the same year, the text was published in a German exile magazine printed in Moscow, International Literature, whose editor in chief, the writer Fritz Erpenbeck, would later be involved in the Lucullus debate. The matter was not finished: in 1943, Brecht (who was living at the time in Santa Monica, California, among other exiled German artists) visited New York for the first time and met the Jewish composer Paul Dessau, himself an emigré from Berlin. Dessau, who was born in 1894 in Hamburg, remembers that Brecht read Lucullus to him in California: “What Brecht had in mind soon became clear: he really wanted to turn Lucullus into an opera. I worked a lot on the text of the radio play. There were of course many roles suited for a dramatic composition, but that we could make an opera out of it was not obvious to me for a long time. The topic dropped for a long time from our conversations” (Dessau, 1974:43). Dessau’s unfamiliarity with the requirements of Brechtian musical theater was probably another reason for the initial hesitation. Meanwhile, another bold idea of Brecht’s never came to fruition: Dessau was to enlist Igor Stravinsky, who lived

BRECHT/DESSAU’S LUCULLUS 15

nearby, to work on the project. Stravinsky declined for lack of time. Then in 1947, the American composer Roger Sessions brought the Brechtian text to a hardly noticed premiere at the University of California at Berkeley. The music is nowadays apparently lost, and Brecht was not involved in the staging. Alongside Sessions, who was musical director, Arthur Schnitzler’s son Henry directed the play (Lucchesi & Shull, 1988:717). A year later, after a degrading interrogation before the House Un-American Activities Committee (and with state sanctions against the opera Lucullus playing no secondary role), Brecht returned to Berlin. Events there had made the opera’s content timely once more. Northwest German Radio in Hamburg signalled interest in a radio opera, but no contract was drawn up after Dessau’s return to Berlin in 1948, and the project was finally abandoned. Nonetheless, Dessau’s preoccupation with it led to the idea of “not plunging headlong into the complete apparatus for a Lucullus opera, but to think in terms of a small orchestral setting. This reflection led me directly into working on the music for a regular opera.” A preliminary version of the music was finished by December 1949, and on the advice of Brecht’s long-time friend, the stage director Caspar Neher, the opera was recommended for production by the German State Opera in East Berlin. With it began an opera debate that was singular in the history of postwar Germany. Many determining factors came together in one historical moment: the recent foundation of the two German states, the Cold War, the hot war in Korea, and the renewed discussion of artistic Formalism and Realism launched in the Soviet Union in 1948. On February 13, 1950, German State Opera director Ernst Legal—associated with Brecht for twenty years as an actor and director—submitted the opera to the Ministry of National Education for review. The ministry, however, was not ready to give a quick reply. Three-and-a-half weeks later, Legal sent another letter concerning Lucullus to his superiors: If a position is not taken in the shortest possible time, a modern work directed against war and the dangers of war will be lost to us…. Also, in my opinion, which is solely that of an art politician, I find that concerns are being raised in this connection where there really are none, or that the political consequences of a production are being overestimated while the independent thinking of the public and its right to be informed are underestimated. Of course it would never occur to me to recommend a work that runs counter to our state principles, or takes a hostile stance against our state character.—By the same token I am bound to take into consideration the interests of the German Democratic Republic, and to avoid any action that might cause our cultural policy to look from the outside like something other than a policy of intellectual freedom. (Lucchesi, 1993:28) On April 18, a decision finally came from the ministry’s Division of Art and Literature: the Lucullus opera was approved as part of the season schedule, but the contemporary ballet “Hamlet” by Boris Blacher and Tatjana Gsovsky, which had been proposed at the same time, would have to be refused in order “to avoid a concentration of problematic musical works” (Lucchesi, 1993:35). Although official permission had now been granted, work on the stage production did not begin immediately. For one thing, a suitable director had to be found. Ernst Legal had initially favored conductor Egon Glückselig from Göttin-gen, but at the beginning of October 1950 he approached Swiss conductor Hermann Scherchen, a specialist in contemporary music. Scherchen accepted immediately. Dessau was

16 JOACHIM LUCCHESI

meanwhile working intensively on the score through the end of 1950. Only on January 15, 1951, could he report to Ernst Legal: “Yesterday evening the score was finally completed…and now we must magically combine the new modifications with the already existing piano parts” (Lucchesi, 1993:59). By this time (almost a year had passed since Ernst Legal submitted the libretto to the authorities), the culturalpolitical climate in the GDR had deteriorated markedly. In the daily newpaper Tägliche Rundschau, an organ of the Soviet military administration, a quasi-official article appeared on November 19, 1950, under the pseudonym “N. Orlow,” viciously attacking the German State Opera: It is time to deal with the State Opera in Berlin, and to impose order there. There must be an end to the rule of darkness in the State Opera in Berlin, to the mockery of the spectators, singers, and members of the orchestra by a handful of talentless mystics and Formalists who have crept into the leadership. There must be an end to the hopeless backwardness displayed by most of the productions. (Lucchesi, 1993:49) At the beginning of 1948, a campaign had begun in Moscow (continuing a similar aesthetic debate from the thirties) against elements of so-called Formalism and Realism in music. Works by Shostakovich, Khachaturian, and Muradeli were criticized as elitist and decadent, and were even banned in some cases. What is striking in this discussion is that the cultural-political label “Formalism” designated anything but a theoretically developed notion. Its very lack of sharpness and consequent loose application suited it as a vehicle for every possible basis of critical misgiving: confusion rooted in unfamiliarity with contemporary movements in art, convictions about the uselessness of a Modernism that had developed under capitalist conditions, fear of “cosmopolitan” takeover (particularly an American one), the “emptying” of the nascent socialist national culture—but also from simple reasons of personal resentment. This Soviet campaign of “Zhdanovism” (named after its spokesman, Soviet Politburo member Andrey Zhdanov) spread to the GDR at the critical moment of its founding. While signs of a cultural policy reorientation on the Soviet model had been increasingly evident in the press since the end of the forties, the campaign was officially legitimized by the Fifth Conference of the Central Committee of the SED in March 1951. Prior to the conference, on January 26, Central Committee Secretary for Art Questions Hans Lauter had issued an internal directive to the Ministry of National Education: “The discussion in the area of music and the struggle against Formalism should begin shortly in the press” (Lucchesi, 1993:62). It was predictable that in this increasingly tense cultural and political climate the Party and government authorities engaged with artistic proceedings would have to rethink the performance authorizations they had already issued. On December 28, 1950, the Ministry of National Education demanded a second look at the Lucullus score. Brecht reports in his work journal: Morning talk with Dessau, the chorus rehearsals for Lucullus have already begun, but now the Ministry of National Education asks again for the score and Dessau would rather postpone the performance until the Fall. I am against it. The material is all the more important now that the American threats are so hysterical. (Hecht, 1974:570) By “American threats,” Brecht meant General Douglas MacArthur’s announcement of the possible spread of the Korean War onto Chinese territory.

BRECHT/DESSAU’S LUCULLUS 17

On March 12, 1951, the Secretariat of the General Committee of the SED came to a decision concerning the opera. Among others present were Walter Ulbricht, Franz Dahlem, Willi Stoph, and Hans Lauter. The minutes of the proceedings state: The opera The Trial of Lucullus of Brecht/Dessau is not to be publicly presented, and is to be removed from the playing schedule. The Minister of National Education, Comrade Wandel, is asked to cancel the scheduled premiere immediately, and to see that this piece is not included on the schedule at all…. On March 13, after a rehearsal in the rooms of the State Opera, a discussion of the opera occurred, with distinguished comrades and artists as well as culture officials from the Berlin factories, FDJ [Free German Youth] officials, members of the Academy of Arts, the cultural associations, etc., taking part. (Lucchesi, 1993:82) This discussion, held four days prior to the premiere and transcribed by a stenographer (see Lucchesi, 1993:101–122, also 82–101), belongs to the most important documents of the first major, internationally watched artistic debate of the early GDR. The transcript reveals how people were actually talking past each other, and the special tragedy of the situation was that it was not a question of pure antagonism. It was something much worse: both attackers and attacked were in the same boat and desired in good faith to make contributions to the founding of a new society. That this desire had in 1951 still not been frayed by constant criticism provides historical insight into that time. Brecht and Dessau were convinced that an emerging society needed art that was at the international forefront. But the problem was this: people who had engaged in the political struggles of the twenties, in the resistance, in the emigration, in the Spanish Civil War, who had gone to the anti-fascist schools in Moscow—these people worked now in the ministries and the art commissions. Culture functionaries whose views of art had been stamped by petty bourgeois and even philistine aesthetic models were now called upon to assess Dessau’s unconventional music, and it was impossible for them to recognize in such music a new beginning. They nevertheless carried out their official duties with conviction, evaluating new artistic developments in the GDR and, when necessary, regulating them harshly. The transcript of the March 13 meeting lists a decidedly heterogeneous assemblage of discussants. Besides Brecht, the meeting brought together Dessau, Helene Weigel, and Hermann Scherchen; also present were writer Fritz Erpenbeck (serving as discussion leader), along with composer Ernst Hermann Meyer, musicologist Harry Goldschmidt (a Swiss immigrant and student of Scherchen), music scholar Georg Knepler, writer Kurt Barthel (who published under the name KuBa), music critic Karl Laux, theater critic Herbert Ihering, musicologist Nathan Notowicz, Director of the German State Opera Ernst Legal, and Minister of National Education Paul Wandel, as well as representatives from the film studio DEFA, the Free German Youth (FDJ), and the League of Trade Unions (FDGB). The minutes of the meeting illustrate the style of criticism that was typical of the time. It becomes clear in the course of the discussion that the complex connections between plot, language, scenic realization, and music were to be almost totally ignored. Brecht’s libretto was hardly considered, questions of interpretation were discussed only marginally, questions of staging were not debated at all. Instead, the music—detached from everything else—was subjected to sharp criticism and even condemnation.

18 JOACHIM LUCCHESI

Isolated material elements of the music were taken from their theatrical contexts and criticized without regard to questions of relational meaning. Ernst Hermann Meyer, who opened the discussion with a citation from Stalin (stenographer Käthe Rülicke refrained from putting it down completely in the minutes), was critical of the accumulation of dissonant sevenths and seconds, the sharpness of the wind instrument chords, and the absence of melodic contour. Instead, because of disproportionate use of percussion instruments, the rhythm predominates, to the detriment of the melodic line and harmonic development (Lucchesi, 1993:102). Nathan Notowicz, reflecting the restoration of Classical norms that was a part of Soviet aesthetics, also saw a disturbance of the balance among melody, harmony, and rhythm. Dessau, he claims, works with techniques of “destruction” that allow rhythm to “dwarf” melody and harmony. Notowicz felt that the composer had meant to use the unclassical disproportion of his musical material for progressive ends, but that “destruction” properly belongs to decadent imperialism (Lucchesi, 1993:108). The critic Karl Laux went so far as to speak of a “nonmusic” that for long stretches is mere “noise” that obscures the text; the dominance of rhythm compels the singer to stress words improperly; Dessau’s chosen method leads to the kind of muddle already seen in the 1945 opera Antigone by Carl Orff (a favorite example in antiFormalist criticism) (Lucchesi, 1993:108–109). Another line of attack focused on the charge that Dessau was a traditionalist, compositionally rooted in the past, resorting to tendencies current in European music after the First World War. How, Brecht must have wondered, can such obsolete musical thinking adequately address new social conditions? Did it not strike any of the critics that by drawing exclusively on classical models and standards in determining the aesthetic foundations of the new society’s art (which is how the theory of Socialist Realism originated) that one was going much farther back in history than the First World War? Brecht was not convinced in the least by such views: “When one treats only old music as exemplary, then one is using music that appears to have no conflict because the conflicts that it describes are no longer part of the today’s reality. How are we supposed to use these examples to bring the unresolved conflicts of our own time before our ears?” (Lucchesi, 1993:185). Brecht had in mind the contrast between the advanced, unconventional, emotionally distant music Dessau wrote for his opera text, and, for instance, the latest oratorios of Ernst Hermann Meyer, which he characterized in 1952 as a mixture of “fake sentimentality and artificial sweetness” [“Schmalzersatz und Kunsthonig”] (Hecht, 1974:590). In the same vein, DEFA film director Wolfgang Schleif warned the opera’s critics against the increasingly narrow ideal of a “melodious popular music.” Fascism had ruined his ear for such music, he said, and he longed for “refreshing” rhythms and for music that is “ice cold.” He was, however, asking too much from this circle, and Käthe Rülicke noted the reaction as “laughter” (Lucchesi, 1993:105). Hermann Scherchen, a friend of Paul Dessau, defended the opera passionately, but it was only with difficulty that he was kept from resigning on the spot as conductor and walking out in protest. He appealed to the greatness of Brecht’s poetry, which had inspired Dessau’s music. He characterized the whole discussion as “crazy nonsense” and urged the others to stop acting as though great art works were something “that can be eaten like a bowl of soup”—an observation that Dessau often made later in similar form (Lucchesi, 1993:118–119). Harry Goldschmidt also criticized the discussion for concentrating exclusively on Paul Dessau, and thereby

BRECHT/DESSAU’S LUCULLUS 19

ignoring the high congruity between the text and the music. And this was indeed the most pertinent insight concerning the opera to come out of the morning’s discussion: the music sets free the intellect in Brechtian fashion. Goldschmidt usefully proposed first to examine Brecht’s text in order to be able to judge Dessau’s music more precisely and more justly (Lucchesi, 1993:110). And Dessau himself? As he told Hans Bunge seven years later in 1958, he was “dreadfully disappointed” (Bertolt-Brecht-Archiv, unnumbered: transcript of a recording made on 30 September 1958 at Zeuthen bei Berlin, p. 23). On March 13, 1952, he, like Brecht, had said little. His reply fluctuated between determination to set the record straight, bitter irony, and protective formality: I thank you for this new and powerful demonstration of friendship. I will not talk about my work, you know it better, I cannot afford it. I wish to talk about something else: I feel like the hero in the opera of Brecht/Dessau. I have been accused of being out of touch. […] As I came here to Berlin two years ago,! I […] immediately took up work alongside Brecht in the mass organizations etc. […] It is not true that I hate the workers, but I do hate from the depth of my heart the bad taste of the masses. […]! am not out of touch—I am out of touch with a small section of the populace, a small section. I feel at home in the German Democratic Republic like in no other land in the world.” (Lucchesi, 1993:113) In the end, according to Käthe Rülicke, the premiere of Lucullus was allowed to go forward so that the opera could be seen in its finished form. The performance was to be closed to the public, however—the tickets were distributed to “organizations, the FDJ, the police, the ministries, etc”—and no subsequent performances were anticipated (Lucchesi, 1993:200). It was four days after this discussion, on the morning of March 17, that Hans Lauter sharply attacked the opera in remarks before the Fifth Conference of the Central Committee: Can such a disharmonious music instill our people with a progressive spirit, with the will to engage themselves in the reconstruction, the fight for peace and a unified Germany? […] No, such music and such a play cannot contribute to the growth of the German people toward answers to their vital questions. (Lucchesi, 1993:158) After this denunciation of the newest development in GDR art as Formalism, novelist Arnold Zweig opened the discussion. It is not surprising that the Politburo censored the greater part of his speech in the 1952 publication of the proceedings, including the following sentence, in which Zweig protested against the closed premiere scheduled for that evening: When you are offered a work by Bert Brecht, a work of indisputable greatness, the trial of General Lucullus, a symbolic representation of the execution of a warmonger, when you have the opportunity today to see the performance of such a work on the stage, you have no right, in my opinion, to exclude the public of the city of Berlin. (Lucchesi, 1993:168–169) The extent to which the state’s cultural-political pretensions had come into conflict with the self-image of the leftist avant-garde is shown by the recollections of journalist Dieter Borkowski. He was witness to an order that the then-chairman of the FDJ, Erich Honecker, gave a few hours before the opera premiere: You have been called here because we are planning an action today that should teach a lesson to certain Formalists and parasites among our artists. […] It is fatal when recognized artists, who already by 1933 were producing bourgeois art bound to

20 JOACHIM LUCCHESI

mislead the proletariat, come to us as immigrants. I am speaking of Bertolt Brecht and Paul Dessau, who still have not broken with the alien tendencies of Formalism and Cosmopolitanism. […] Against all warnings, especially from the Cultural Department of our Central Committee, tonight they are presenting their new opera The Trial of Lucullus at the State Opera in Berlin. The opera is an example of the purest Formalism, consisting of abstractions alien to life, that is to say, the text and music assume a form that contradicts our objective reality. […] You will go tonight to the State Opera with free tickets, and at the intermission, you will give these decadent artists a proper chorus of whistles. (Borkowski, 1981:329) Yet the premiere did not turn out the way Dieter Borkowski expected and Erich Honecker hoped: the isolated whistles and jeers were drowned out by unending applause, and Scherchen mentioned that this was the greatest success that he had ever experienced with a modern work (Lucchesi, 1993:200). Whether, as rumor had it, the hired “jeerers”—annoyed by the prospect of a spoiled evening of modern opera music—had sold their tickets at the theater’s doors to a deluge of opera fans from East and West Berlin, or the applause had surprised and intimidated them, is still unknown. Thanks to the international interest provoked by the banning of the opera, the readiness of Brecht and Dessau to make changes in the original version, the intercession of renowned artists such as Ernst Legal, Hermann Scherchen, Herbert Ihering, Arnold Zweig and others, as well as the willingness of GDR President Wilhelm Pieck to join in the discussion and act as mediator, it was decided on May 15 that “Pending completion of the planned changes, the production is authorized for autumn” (Lucchesi, 1993:228). The second version, entitled The Condemnation of Lucullus, made its public premiere on October 12, 1951, at the German State Opera. The West German premiere followed in January 1952 in Frankfurt am Main. The changes Brecht made to the text were rather small, while Dessau’s revisions to the score grew into a complete rewrite. However, it would be years before the opera could get itself into the opera houses’ repertories. Brecht’s co-worker Käthe Rülicke wrote in her diary on March 15, 1951: “How dreadful that people are trying to have this piece withdrawn. In ten years’ time it will be among the most famous ones” (Lucchesi, 1993:123). In a certain sense, she was right. The bourgeois press initially had a field day with the events of March 1951; with plenty of argumentative support in the form of the continuing production ban and the eloquent silence of the GDR media, much was made of the suppression of Brecht and Dessau’s artistic freedom. The picture changed abruptly with the announcement of the second premiere in October. Columnists who only weeks before had toyed with the idea that Brecht would make a sensational move to the West, and had imagined how he might be received, now found his text alterations—which were much easier to grasp than the truly serious changes in the music—disappointingly close to obsequious court poetry. And in the end, following the premiere in Frankfurt, it became apparent that the objections of Western critics were not very different from those of their GDR colleagues. Günther Engler, writing for the Munich Neue Zeitung, dismissed Dessau’s music as “a pile of aphoristic fragments.” A few months earlier, the first GDR review (which appeared in the official Party newspaper Neues Deutschland) had expressed virtually the same opinion: “The music is thin and fragmented” (Lucchesi, 1993:330). Clearly, discomfort with the avant-garde was one unifying feature of German-German history.

BRECHT/DESSAU’S LUCULLUS 21

The relation of the opera to its time was, however, discussed differently in the two states. While GDR critics drew cautionary analogies to (Western) remilitarization, the Korean War, and the Nuremberg trials, the view took hold among conservative critics in the West German press that the opera was a “pure and untendentious work of art” (Lucchesi, 1993:381), with some critics praising it into oblivion as apolitical and others elegantly refusing to stoop to political discourse. Barely a year after Hans Lauter reproached Dessau for giving aid, “objectively” speaking, to “the war-loving enemies of the human race” (Lucchesi, 1993:193), there was a call in West Germany for “pure, disinterested contemplation of the art work” (Lucchesi, 1993:383). Being viewed from such extreme perspectives, it was inevitable that the Brecht/Dessau opera would persist long after 1951 as a foreign body in the shared and conflict-torn cultural landscape of the two German states. The history of opera in the GDR has now become an independent field of interest for researchers. What is important, however, is to cultivate the sensitivity necessary to illuminate a differentiated picture of how the arts developed in the GDR, without falling into easy clichés of “official art” and “oppositional art.” On both sides there is considerable variety, and often a seamless transition between the two poles. Only after artists and historians succeed in subtly assessing the artistic processes in the former GDR can they begin dealing with a changing present. Translated by David W. Robinson. References Bertolt-Brecht-Archiv der Akademie der Künste, Berlin. Borkowski, Dieter (1981) Für jeden kommt der Tag. Stationen einer Jugend in der DDR. Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp Dessau, Paul (1974) Notizen zu Noten. Leipzig: Reclam Hecht, Werner (1974) Editor. Bertolt Brecht. Arbeitsjournal 1942–1955. Vol. 2. Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp Lucchesi, Joachim, and Ronald K.Shull (1988) Musik bei Brecht. Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp Lucchesi, Joachim (1993) Editor. Das Verhör in der Oper. Die Debatte um die Aufführung “Das Verhör des Lukullus” von Bertolt Brecht und Paul Dessau. Berlin: Basisdruck Verlag Neue Zeitung (1952) [München.] February 1

22

Periods of Precarious Adjustment: Some Notes on the Theater’s Situation at the Beginning and after the End of the Socialist German State Carl Weber

The current restructuring of the German theatrical establishment, especially budget cutbacks, are threatening to bring an end to the long history of socially activist German theater, and particularly the theaters of the former GDR. Meanwhile, the availability of formerly unobtainable archival material has made possible new research into the roots of GDR theater. The Soviet-inspired campaign against Formalism in the early 1950s victimized writers and composers who were themeselves dedicated Marxists, as in the Lucullus and Faustus affairs involving Brecht, Dessau, and Eisler. The latter case, which ended unhappily with the nearsilencing of Brecht and Eisler, is traced in detail. The contemporary scene, despite ideological changes, resembles the unstable situation of the early GDR as a period of readjustment and uncertainty as to the future. KEY WORDS: Eisler, Brecht, Dessau, Formalism, Zhdanov, Müller In the five new states of the Federal Republic of Germany—i.e. the territories which constituted until 1990 the German Democratic Republic—the future of many of the still extant theaters doesn’t look very auspicious. The subsidies the Federal government promised at the time the two states were unified—subsidies intended to “maintain the cultural infrastructure” in the new federal states, as the Unification Treaty stated—were to be terminated in the year 1994. East German state and communal administrations are facing enormous deficits as their economy is shrinking; while real unemployment stands officially at 15%, many observers believe 30–40% to be more realistic. It is reasonable to expect that the dense network of state and municipal theaters inherited from the GDR cannot be sustained in its former scope and variety.1

1

See the comprehensive study by Traute Schölling, “On with the Show? The Transition to Post-Socialist Theater in Eastern Germany” (Schölling, 1993).

24 CARL WEBER

When the Senate of Berlin decided, June 22 of 1993, to close the city’s biggest theater, the Schiller, with its three stages in the formerly Western part of the city and a yearly budget of DM 42 million, such a drastic, heretofore unthinkable step caused an uproar. By now, this roar has become barely a whimper since everybody concerned understood that in these trying times the city simply couldn’t afford to maintain a company with nearly 400 artists, technicians, and administrators, which presented mostly mediocre productions while each seat was subsidized at the rate of 280 Marks per performance. This sum is, of course, being paid with tax money and it made the Schiller the most expensive house for drama in all of Germany. (Even the closing of the theater turns out to be a very expensive affair since a multitude of contracts has to be paid off.)2 When the Senate’s decision was sustained by a vote of the Berlin City Council and the Schiller company’s appeal to the courts failed, suddenly the historically accepted principle of subsidized state and municipal theaters as it was known in Germany became a matter of dispute. Though no one expects that the Schiller-Theater’s demise will toll the bell for a subsidized theater system which Germany had good reason to be proud of and certainly was envied for, the event has initiated a retrenchment. The first signal of an adjustment was sounded at a recent meeting of the Deutsche Bühnenverein, the organization of German theater managers. These stalwarts of the existing system proposed, for the first time, voluntary cutbacks and other measures to reduce the lavish budgets most of the German theaters still are enjoying.3 These adjustments—if they are accepted, and there is little choice for the majority of companies but to do so—will have an impact on all of the German theater landscape. Yet they may augur an especially painful setback for many theaters in the former GDR. The privileged position the theater, like the other arts, enjoyed in the socialist system of the GDR has become a phenomenon of the past. The ruling Marxist ideology regarded visiting the theater, like participating in other cultural activities, a quasi-basic right for all citizens, a right quite as indispensable as were kindergarten, schools, or public transport, let’s say.4 As Article 18 of the GDR constitution of 1968 stated: “Socialist culture is one of the foundations of the Socialist society.” Such a concept presumes that the theater plays an instrumental role in shaping citizens’ thinking and behavior. It inevitably results in censorship when the ruling party believes in the social engineering of nearly every aspect of society. Now, “censorship” may have a horrid ring to the ears of most artists and intellectuals. It did not, however, for many of those who once had emigrated from Nazi rule with its oppression and returned after World War II to the Soviet Occupied Zone of Germany, which was to become the GDR in 1949. Of course, many of them were Communists

2

See “Berliner Aufstände und Abgründe” (Zimmer, 1993). This portrait of Berlin’s Senator for Culture, U.Roloff-Momin, provides a survey of the problems in cultural matters that the new German capital is facing. 3 A reprint of the proposals of the Deutscher Bühnenverein appears in “Ein Beginn der (un) freiwilligen Selbstkontrolle?” (1993). 4 Such a right was not necessarily exercised by most GDR citizens. Even so, an average of between 10 and 12 million theater tickets a year were bought by a population of approximately 16 million people. See Schölling, 1993:288.

GDR THEATER’S BEGINNING AND END 25

who had more or less accepted the dictates of the Party in all intellectual and cultural matters. They had been toeing the Party line before they were forced to leave Germany and continued to do so even during and after the brutal purges Stalin inflicted on the Soviet Party and the international Communist movement. But a great number of the intellectuals who returned to the Eastern part of Germany after 1945—and many younger ones who came of age in the late 40s and early 50s—were neither party members nor necessarily committed Marxists. What united them all was a shared determination to prevent a revival of German nationalism and/or fascism, two ugly trends which had become clearly visible again in the “Western Zones” of Germany which constituted the Federal Republic in 1949. The potential of a resurfacing extreme right in a democratic or, more precisely, Christian Democrat disguise dominated to a great extent the thinking of those German intellectuals who, in 1949, elected to become GDR citizens. They also shared the fear that the emergent “Cold War” might well lead to a “hot” war, and a nuclear one at that, which would be conducted on German soil. And, last but not least, they all had been deeply stamped by the experience of the Great Depression and its political consequences. They had become convinced that a socialist system offered the only tenable answer to a capitalism which they held responsible for two world wars and immense misery all over the globe. It should not be surprising, then, if these artists and intellectuals were quite content with a censorship that suppressed any work that promulgated fascism, racism, or war. Such a consensus, however, did not imply they were in agreement with the suppressive cultural politics of the SED, the Social Unity Party, which had been created by the merger of the former Social Democrat and Communist parties in the Soviet Ocupied Zone in 1946, and became the dominant political, administrative, and cultural force in the newly founded GDR after 1949. On the one hand, the Party was convinced of the importance of the arts and supported them as generously as the financial means of the new GDR permitted. On the other hand, because of the importance granted to the arts, the Party felt compelled to supervise and guide them in a suspicious and sometimes harshly restrictive manner. Control and guidance of the arts were often delegated to artists and intellectuals who preferred being cultural functionaries to working creatively in their particular disciplines. Throughout the history of the GDR, artists and writers had to deal with watchdogs who were at times benign, at other times aggressive in their efforts to uncover ideological dissent and any other deviations from the Party’s cultural line. The particular ideological and artistic “crimes” that were attacked kept changing over the forty years the GDR existed. In general, the cultural politics of the Party moved, in fits and jolts, towards an increasing tolerance, but there always were setbacks, periods when restrictions were again massively enforced. Now that all this is history, archives and other sources have become accessible which were out-of-bounds before 1990. Books have appeared which document and analyze the events and trends that constituted the cultural politics of the GDR. Memoirs are published which had been stowed away in the back of desk drawers or the recesses of memory. Several such recently published works offer a tour across the cultural battleground of early GDR history, a battleground I had occasion to observe from the sidelines during the 1950s. Hans Bunge’s posthumously published documentation of the debate surrounding the publication of Hanns Eisler’s libretto Johann Faustus and Brecht’s production of

26 CARL WEBER

Goethe’s Urfaust fragment presents a central issue of cultural policy during the early and mid-1950s: the definition of a “National Culture” and the defense of the so-called “Classical Heritage” in the arts and letters (Bunge, 1991). “Classical Heritage” was the catchword for the works by German poets, dramatists, composers, and artists who had achieved the status of classics, works the Party had deemed “progressive” and an inalienable property of the German nation. In the early 1950s, when the GDR government still pursued a politics of reunification of the two Germanies, it perceived itself as the guardian of everything that made German culture great. The purity of the cultural heritage and the protection of a German national culture from alien influences were central to every debate about contemporary art and literature. Such cultural tenets, as proclaimed by the Socialist Unity Party during the early years of the GDR, were quite familiar to its citizens who less than a decade before had been taught similar-sounding precepts by the journalists and teachers of Nazi Germany— with the difference, of course, that this time around Jewish classics like Heine, for instance, weren’t excluded. But non-realistic art, dadaism and surrealism, expressionism and symbolism, American jazz, and many more so-called “bourgeois” and/or “cosmopolitan” influences in the arts were anathema to the new guardians of culture, just as they had been to Dr. Goebbels’ Reichskunstkammer.5 The majority of German citizens who had never cared for any kind of nonrepresentational art didn’t feel particularly bothered by Nazi censorship and its preference for realism and other such 19th century forms. The young GDR was peopled by the same citizens, of course, and a majority was again quite content to accept Socialist Realism as it was defined by the guidelines which Andrej A. Zhdanov6 had proclaimed for the Soviet Union, guidelines the SED began to follow ever more closely during 1950. Elsewhere in this issue, Joachim Lucchesi offers an instructive overview of these prevailing opinions in his essay on the events surrounding the premiere performance of the opera The Trial of Lucullus (Das Verhör des Lukullus) by Bertolt Brecht and Paul Dessau.7

5

For a brief description of this “Reich Chamber of the Arts” and Nazi cultural politics in general, see Fest, 1970. 6 Andrey Alexandrovitch Zhdanov (1896–1948), first secretary of the Soviet Communist Party in Leningrad during World War II and a member of the Politburo since 1939, defined the concept of “Socialist Realism” in a speech on the question of Formalism and Realism in the arts on the occasion of a 1948 Central Committee meeting to discuss V.Muradeli’s opera The Great Friendship. The speech was published in East Berlin in 1951. 7 See also the author’s excellent collection of documents pertaining to the debate (Lucchesi, 1993).

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At the center of this particular conflict was the fight against “formalism” in music and literature. A public debate at the East Berlin State Opera after an open rehearsal, four days before the premiere of the opera, March 13, 1951, was an event symptomatic of the cultural climate of the time. The debate took place in a rehearsal hall; present were a number of music critics, some musicologists, and, of course, Brecht, the composer Dessau,8 the opera’s conductor Hermann Scherchen,9 the State Opera’s artistic director Ernst Legal,10 and several other artists involved in the project. There were also members of the various groups which had been summoned to attend the rehearsal: from factories, the Party-affiliated youth organization FDJ (Free German Youth), and several Berlin theaters. And there were, inevitably, cultural functionaries from Party, Government, and such institutions as the Academy of the Arts. I still vividly remember the vituperative tenor of many of the arguments, the heated discussion where voices often were raised to shrill and aggressive levels, reminding me of what I imagined the Spanish Inquisition must have been like. All the debate’s participants shared a firm belief in Socialism and a Marxist view of the arts’ role in society. Where they differed, and violently differed, was in how the arts should serve contemporary society in the newly established GDR. The minutes of the debate, as printed in Lucchesi’s book, reveal impressively the antagonistic positions and the vehemence of many of the arguments that were hurled against Dessau’s music and Brecht’s libretto. The reader will discover that they responded to the attacks with great reluctance. They pointed out that those present had seen merely a rehearsal which could only give an incomplete impression of what the production

8

Paul Dessau (1894–1979), a conductor and composer during the 1920s, emigrated in 1933 to Paris, where he began to explore the 12-tone technique of serial music composition established by Arnold Schoenberg. In 1939 he settled in New York and, in 1942, in Hollywood, where he started his collaboration with Brecht. In 1948 he returned to Berlin. Beginning with Mother Courage and her Children, Dessau composed stage music for Brecht’s productions and those of other directors at the Berliner Ensemble, among them The Caucasian Chalk Circle, The Good Person of Setzuan, A Man is a Man, and Urfaust. He composed five operas, two of them based on plays by Brecht: The Trial of Lucullus and Puntila. Dessau also wrote a great number of orchestral works, oratoria, chamber works, songs, and film scores. 9 Hermann Scherchen (1891–1966), a conductor, composer, teacher, writer, and publisher, was one of the most active early promoters of modernism in music. In 1933, he took up residence in Switzerland but conducted all over the world. In 1919, during his Berlin years, he had founded the Society for New Music and the journal Melos, still one of the most important publications devoted to new developments in contemporary music. He previously had worked with Brecht as the conductor of several of Brecht’s Lehrstück (“didactic play”) performances in the late 1920s. 10 Emst Legal (1881–1955) was an acclaimed actor, stage director, and playwright who, as managing director of the Darmstadt State Theater, had produced the premiere of Brecht’s A Man is a Man in 1926. During 1931–1933 he was artistic director of the Prussian State Theater in Berlin, where he invited Brecht to direct his own production of the same play. During the Nazi years, Legal worked as an actor and director at various Berlin theaters. In 1945, he was appointed as general manager of the German State Opera in Berlin, a position he held until 1952. He was one of the first recipients of the National Prize of the GDR, in 1949.

28 CARL WEBER

was intended to be like. Few seemed to hear or accept their statements. A critic who hadn’t even read the libretto claimed he felt perfectly competent to judge the text’s intentions. Brecht and Dessau quickly understood that they had no chance of a fair hearing and consequently didn’t say much in the debate, except for rejecting some of the most vicious accusations. I’ll never forget Dessau’s passionate final words when, tears welling to his eyes, he protested that the GDR was his true home. Considering the venom of several of the attacks, he had all the more need to assert his political loyalty as the committed Socialist he was. When the premiere performance of the opera, though closed to the general public, turned out to be an unexpected triumph with the audience and also many of the critics, the immediate response of the Party was to stop the production there and then. Only after Brecht and Dessau appealed to the highest authorities in Party and government was a meeting arranged where the authors could discuss their work with the GDR’s President Wilhelm Pieck, Prime Minister Otto Grotewohl, the Minister of Culture, the Politburo’s man for cultural affairs, and several other high-ranking functionaries. The result was that Brecht and Dessau committed themselves to several changes in libretto and music. Consequently, probably due to Wilhelm Pieck’s insistence, the Politburo gave the green light for a production of the revised version of the opera which then opened at the State Opera in October of 1951. The Lucullus story had, in a way, a happy ending. Disagreements about the work existed even at the highest level of the Party and, in this case, the more tolerant faction prevailed. What remains, when we look back at all these altercations, is the rather amazing fact that the leaders of this newly founded state, the GDR, concerned themselves with the premiere of a new opera as a political matter of the highest order. The importance they assigned to the event—which, after all, would have touched a few thousand people at most—is evidence of a nearly religious belief in the theater as a place where the identity of a society is shaped. I know of no other incident in history when the president and the leading ministers of a government convened expressly to discuss the finer points of text and music with the authors of a new opera, and then decided to support a production of the work after minor concessions from the authors. A few months after the East Berlin premiere, in January of 1952, the opera opened in West Germany at the Frankfurt am Main opera house. But this was a production of the original, unaltered version; Brecht had insisted on this. During all those turbulent events which can be traced in the documents Joachim Lucchesi collected in his volume, the clumsy and often quite confused procedure of the Party was countered by the wily strategies employed by Brecht and also Ernst Legal, the artistic director of the State Opera. As much as both men were committed to the new socialist state, they were equally determined to protect their own work from the intrusion of Party hacks and their intellectual henchmen. This wasn’t the first and certainly not the last time that Brecht managed to outwit the Party watchdogs who tried to impose their narrow rules on projects he pursued as a writer and/or stage director. The resistance of certain factions in the Party, and in the cultural establishment supported by the Party, had already made the founding of his Berliner Ensemble, in 1949, a complex though eventually victorious struggle. Brecht himself commented only once on the tedious negotiations in his journal: “For the first time I am conscious of the fetid breath of provincialism here” (Brecht, 1993:416). But there were to come other occasions

GDR THEATER’S BEGINNING AND END 29

when Brecht had to suffer from the rancid atmosphere which permeated the Party’s cultural policy in the early 1950s, a policy determined by Party veterans who shared a concept of Socialist Realism which held that art is a representational “mirror of reality” and has to show the positive perspective of mankind in the age of socialism. Artists, to them, were the “engineers of the soul,” as Joseph Stalin once succinctly put it, and were supposed to follow and affirm the socialist bueprints the Party was providing. In the case of the Brecht/Dessau opera, Brecht’s strategies succeeded. Two years later, in the controversy over Hanns Eisler’s Johannes Faustus and Brecht’s production of Goethe’s Urfaust, it was the Party’s cultural functionaries who carried the day. In April of 1952, the Berliner Ensemble arranged for some “try-out” performances of Brecht’s adaptation of Goethe’s Urfaust fragment at the municipal theater of Potsdam, the Berlin suburb that once was the residence of the Hohenzollerns. Brecht’s version showed the protagonist Faust not merely as the ever-searching mind in pursuit of omniscience but also as an intellectual hypocrite who pursues his egotistical aims without caring much f or those he victimizes in the process, such as Gretchen. The same year, the GDR publishing house Aufbau-Verlag published Hanns Eisler’s libretto for an opera he intended to compose, Johannes Faustus.11 Eisler’s revision of the traditional narrative presented a character who had many things in common with Goethe’s protagonist but also some resemblance to the negative hero of the old “Volksbuch vom Dr. Faust,” the popular fairy tale first published in 1587. Eisler’s Faust is a Renaissance humanist scholar, son of a peasant, who, having studied with Luther and Thomas Münzer, first joins but then betrays the abortive revolution of the German peasants in 1524–25. Deeply disappointed with politics, he decides to make the sciences his career with the help of the Devil. Currying favor with the victorious aristocracy, he strives for fame and success and, deservedly, goes to hell. It didn’t take long until Eisler’s text became the focus of an increasingly heated debate. Supporters of his effort to present Faustus as an exemplar of the deutsche Misere, the misery of Germany’s history, were challenged by the detractors who accused Eisler of demeaning Goethe’s greatest creation and of ignoring the officially

11

Hanns Eisler (1989–1962) was one of Arnold Schoenberg’s favorite students and a lifelong friend. Close to the communist movement during the 1920s, Eisler became the most prominent composer and musical theorist of the radical left in Berlin. He composed a great number of political songs and cantatas, and wrote the music for several of Brecht’s didactic plays. In 1933 Eisler left Germany and spent many years in transit, working in France, Holland, Belgium, the Soviet Union, the United States, Spain, and Mexico. In 1940, he settled in the States where he taught at the New School for Social Research and, from 1942, at USC in Los Angeles. He wrote a number of successful scores for the film industry and received an Oscar nomination. After being summoned several times before the House Un-American Activities Committee, Eisler returned to Europe in 1948, first to Vienna and, in 1950, to East Berlin. He composed the national anthem of the GDR, political songs, and more than 40 scores for plays by Brecht and other authors. Eisler is also the composer of many Lieder, chamber music pieces, piano sonatas, and choral works.

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adopted view of the “Classical Heritage” The criticism first was aimed not so much at the libretto itself but at an essay by Ernst Fischer, the Austro-Marxist critic, playwright, and politician who was Eisler’s brother-in-law.12 In his essay, Fischer defined as the most important achievement of Eisler’s text the portrayal in Faust of “the humanist as renegade” who, according to Fischer, was a “central protagonist of the deutsche Misere.” The debate had already been heating up when the Ensemble opened “Urfaust” at Berlin’s Deutsches Theater, in March of 1953. The critical response in East Berlin was more or less negative; the papers either ignored the opening or launched massive attacks against Brecht. One example was the critic for the Party paper Neues Deutschland, Johanna Rudolph, whose essay appeared two months after the opening. Aiming at both defamers of Goethe’s national hero, she claimed that Brecht and Eisler were on the verge of committing high treason against the national culture.13 Two weeks earlier, the editorial board of the same paper had lectured Eisler, in an extensive analysis of his libretto, that he still was under the spell of “Cosmopolitanism” and had better drop his project of composing a German “national opera” (Bunge, 1991:91–101). In April of 1953, the State Commission for the Arts called a conference to debate and establish, once and for all, the method of Stanislavski as the only desirable model for the GDR theater. Brecht asked all of his collaborators to attend and was himself watching the proceedings from the back of the conference hall. On the second day, he handed me a brief statement and asked me to read it to the assembly, which I did; the response in the hall was one of muted inscrutability. Brecht had stated, after some compliments for Stanislavski’s achievements, “Of Stanislavski’s work methods we must adopt those which advance the individual work methods of our stage directors and actors, not those which might hinder them” (Völker, 1975: 176–177).14 His statement was not well received by the Party’s cultural experts, and Johanna Rudolph, in her “Remarks on the Faust Problem,” didn’t fail to remind Brecht that his theater practice would never equal Stanislavski’s towering achievement as long as he continued to “follow the path of negating the national cultural heritage” (Mahl, 1986:197).

12

Fischer’s essay had appeared in the most prestigious literary journal of the GDR, Sinn and Form, in June 1952. For excerpts pertaining to Eisler’s libretto, see Bunge, 1991:23. 13 For a comprehensive documentation and commentary of Brecht’s “Urfaust” project, see the excellent study by Bernd Mahl, Brechts und Monks “Urfaust” Inszenierung mit dem Berliner Ensemble 1952/53 (Mahl, 1986). 14 See also the notes on Stanislavski studies in Brecht, 1967:843–66. The paper that Brecht asked me to read to the conference contained the quoted sentence but also some statements which are not included in the “Proposals for the Stanislavski Conference” (Brecht 1967:854–55).

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In May and early June of 1953, three meetings of the so-called “Wednesday Assembly”15 at the Academy of the Arts were devoted to a discussion of Eisler’s project. Among those present, aside from Eisler, were Brecht, the novelist and president of the Academy Arnold Zweig,16 the poet and author of the GDR’s national anthem Johannes R.Becher,17 the director and head of the Comic Opera Walter Felsenstein,18 one or two composers, and a great number of critics and cultural functionaries. The small group of Eisler supporters, i.e. Brecht, Zweig, Felsenstein, and, to a lesser degree, Becher, were confronted by a vociferous majority that clearly wasn’t interested in a true debate but rather espoused the condemnation of a work they claimed to be a traitorous attack on Germany’s highest cultural and historical values. Brecht, who very rarely read in public even his own poetry, recited in response the “Confessio” of Eisler’s protagonist Faustus, a moving selfcondemnation of the scholar-turned-traitor. It obviously didn’t impress Eisler’s critics. Eisler barely defended his work during the debate. He tried to steer the discussion towards the investigation of concrete textual and dramaturgic details, but his remarks were simply brushed aside. Most participants in the discussion tried to outdo each other in identifying the negative, politically incorrect aspects of Eisler’s work. It was blamed for a “pernicious use” of popular forms, and its protagonist Faust was compared to Tito, at the time the favorite villain of the Party propaganda. Eisler seemed to be completely taken by surprise that his well-intended project was so grotesquely misunderstood. He finally asked for a period of grace, a few weeks to study all the objections and prepare an answer. This being granted, a second meeting was scheduled.

15 The “Wednesday Assemblies” were frequently-scheduled meetings to which the Academy of the Arts invited its members as well as other artists, critics and representatives of the cultural establishment to discuss current artistic issues and new works by Academy members. 16 Arnold Zweig (1887–1968) was a novelist and playwright who had received the Kleist Prize in 1915. Among his novels, The Case of Sargeant Grischa had established him as one of the important writers of the Weimar Republic. In 1933 he emigrated and eventually settled in Palestine. In 1948 he returned to East Berlin, where he was a respected “grand old man” of letters. 17 Johannes R.Becher (1891–1958) was an important Expressionist poet and also a novelist, essayist, and playwright. He joined the Communist Party shortly after World War I, and co-founded in 1928 the Association of Proletarian-Revolutionary Writers. He had to emigrate in 1933, and settled in Moscow in 1935. Until 1945 he was editor-in-chief of the German-language journal International Literature. At the end of the war he returned to Berlin where he became president of the Cultural Federation and of the Academy of the Arts, and, in 1954, Minister of Culture. He received the National Prize of the GDR two years in a row, in 1949 and 1950. Brecht staged one of his plays, Winter Battle (Die Winterschlacht), at the Berliner Ensemble in 1955. 18 Walter Felsenstein (1901–1975) was an Austrian stage director who began his career as an actor in the 1920s and turned to directing in the 1930s. In 1947 he was appointed artistic director of the Comic Opera in East Berlin, where he developed his style of a “realistic music theater,” adapting Stanislavski’s methods to the opera and striving for psychological and historical veracity. His work as an opera director was groundbreaking and his influence is still evident in much of contemporary opera performance.

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Between the sessions, the devastating analysis of Eisler’s text by the editorial board of the Party paper Neues Deutschland and the essay by Johanna Rudolph were published; now everyone knew what the Party expected from its intellectual henchmen. At the opening of the second Wednesday session, Eisler read the detailed statement he had prepared. Replying in concrete terms to the attacks and resting his case on the text itself, he concluded by proposing that his critics should read the libretto a second time. Most of those present seem to have perceived Eisler’s reply as sheer arrogance. One by one, they took him to task for his ideological errors which they mainly had derived from Fischer’s essay and then projected into Eisler’s text. As was the habit in those days, Soviet authorities were extensively quoted, especially Zhdanov, Malenkov, and certainly Stalin. It was Walter Felsenstein who pointed out that he felt like he was in a court room, the way Eisler was treated as if he were a political criminal and traitor. Brecht presented 12 theses concerning the Faust discussion wherein he refuted several of the attacks, dodged a few of the ideological issues and, most importantly, distanced himself from Fischer’s interpretation. Quite cunningly, he quoted an entry in the Soviet Encyclopedia’s volume on Germany that was fully supportive of Fischer’s view of the German humanists’ position during the peasant wars—no one would dare to question the judgment of a Soviet publication of the highest authority. Conceding to Eisler’s critics that German history shouldn’t be presented in a purely negative manner and that Goethe’s Faust needed to become an acknowledged treasure of the people, Brecht concluded that Eisler had done exactly what his critics demanded: he had sided with the progressive forces in the German tradition and offered a positive contribution to the Faust problematic. Brecht’s remarks didn’t change anything; in fact, they seemed to act rather as a spur to the opposition. Dr. Faustus’ “Confessio,” for instance, which had been invoked by Brecht, and also by Felsenstein, as evidence of the work’s progressive thrust, was compared by one speaker, Hans Rodenberg,19 to the final statements of Radek, Katz, and Slansky on the occasion of their show trials during the purges of the 30s and early 50s. By turning Faust into a kind of Tito, claimed Rodenberg, Eisler revealed his profound distrust of the German people. Eventually it was decided that a further meeting should be called so that the 12 theses of Brecht and six points of response by Eisler’s main critic, Wilhelm Girnus,20 could be further discussed. There was also

19

Hans Rodenberg (1895–1978) was an actor and stage director who had joined the Communist Party in 1926. He survived the Nazi years as an emigré in Moscow where he held various positions in the radio and film industry. His role as an informer during the purges of the Party in the 1930s is still a matter of dispute. After his return to Berlin, he was the founding artistic director of the East Berlin Youth Theater, Theater der Freundschaft. In 1952, he became head of the state film company DEFA and, eventually, a deputy minister of culture and member of the State Council, the highest ranking governing body of the GDR. He was one of the most fanatical proponents of “Socialist Realism” in the theater and film of the GDR. 20 Wilhelm Girnus (1906–1985) had studied painting, art history, and literature in the 1920s and joined the Communist Party in 1929. During the Nazi period he had been imprisoned in penitentiaries and concentration camps. At the time of the debate, he was deputy editor of the Party newspaper Neues Deutschland. He later became a professor of literature at Humboldt University in Berlin and editor-in-chief of the Academy of the Arts’ cultural journal Sinn und Form.

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a demand that the editor at Aufbau-Verlag, who was responsible for the published text of the opera, should be summoned to defend his choice, and that the Berliner Ensemble’s “Urfaust” production be included in this debate. Brecht, however, refused: the production had not been really finished and was taken off the repertory. And so another session of the Wednesday Assembly was scheduled for early June. A week before the agreed date, the Party paper Neues Deutschland published several “Letters from our readers,” a familiar strategy to document the people’s purported disgust with a particular person or issue. The paper’s introductory remark read: “These letters bear, without exception, witness that our people love and respect the Classical Heritage and that they regard any attack of the Classical Heritage as an attack against the national consciousness of the German people” (Bunge, 1991:183). A quote from one of the four published letters may suffice to demonstrate the spirit of this campaign: “A Faust opera with a libretto such as this one would be a slap in the face of the German youth, [it] would not only ignore the educational principles of our democratic school but indeed trample them into the dust.” Thus, the climate in which the third discussion of Eisler’s work started had been prepared. At the beginning the six points of Girnus were handed out to all participants, points which restated the critics’ claim that Eisler never had spoken to the central issues of the debate. The venerable President of the Academy, Arnold Zweig, volunteered “to break the ice” and, after reminding the assembled that the burning problem of German unification had not been considered at all in the previous debate, defended Eisler’s text as written in the present for the present time. Zweig argued that Eisler ought to complete the opera because it would speak to the problem of those contemporary German intellectuals and artists who are undecided, poised between a capitalist and a socialist perspective for Germany. The protagonist’s name, however, should be changed to Agrippa of Nettesheim, another humanist/charlatan in the period of the peasant wars. Thus, the unfortunate comparison with Goethe’s Faust would be avoided. Zweig’s argument that the question of the historical correctness of Eisler’s Faust character was of minor concern in the present political situation was brusquely ignored. Girnus insisted on Eisler’s responding to the six points, and also attacked several of Brecht’s twelve theses. Another dispute erupted over such issues as the rise of a German national culture despite the recurrent triumph of reactionary forces throughout German history, the responsibility of German intellectuals, and the educational function of the arts. One speaker accused Eisler of “muckraking,” which triggered a vehement protest by Brecht, who seemed all too clearly reminded of the vocabulary of Dr. Goebbels. Finally Girnus raised the familiar specter of Socialist Realism and took Eisler to task for violating several elementary rules of the doctrine in his work. Brecht immediately jumped into the breach and defended the artistic choices and liberties taken by Eisler in his treatment of the Faust fable. Girnus and other speakers insisted, however, that Eisler ignored not only the principles of Socialist Realism but also the guidelines the Party’s Central Committee resolution of March 1951 had established for the “further development of the Classical Heritage,” as Girnus pointed out. A lengthy exchange ensued in which Brecht defended the libretto as, among other things, a well-crafted satire, but the arguments veered further and further away from any concrete aspects of the text towards general political and ideological topics. When Ernst Schroeder, the editor-in-chief of the Aufbau-Verlag, apologized for the publication of the text and read a paper by a group of his editors who distanced

34 CARL WEBER

themselves sharply form Eisler’s work, Brecht rather lamely conceded that his personal impressions were not shared by many of those present, that the text in its present state showed considerable gaps, “not in its structure but in its execution,” as Brecht put it, and that “the tendency, which to my mind is truly important and also nationally and socially valid, obviously doesn’t come across.” Girnus quickly proclaimed that the discussion should be concluded since the positions of Brecht and those of Eisler’s critics were not all that far apart. Eisler agreed immediately but Girnus, trying to make the most of what he seemed to regard as having won his case, launched into a new attack of a particular speech in the libretto where Faust states that books and gunpowder were equally abused in Germany. This was an impertinent insult to all of German literature, according to Girnus. It took the discussion’s mediator some effort to stop the renewed altercation and propose a closure of the debate, strongly seconded by Eisler himself, who seemed to have had it by now. A lengthy debate ensued about the topic to be discussed at the next Wednesday Assembly; one participant proposed Brecht’s production of the new play Katzgraben by Erwin Strittmatter, but Brecht politely declined, pointing out that one of the leading actors was recuperating from a heart attack and so the play wouldn’t be performed for some time; however, at a later date, with pleasure! A week after this meeting, on June 17 of 1953, the construction workers of the Stalin-Allee, and soon workers in every part of the GDR, went on strike. The result was a general uprising of the East German population which caused the Red Army to move in and put a quick end to it. The finer points of an opera libretto were hardly an issue of central importance for quite a while. Hanns Eisler left the GDR shortly after the debates, going first to Vienna where he had contracted to work on a film based on Beethoven’s Fidelio, and later to France and Switzerland. Many of us who knew him at the time thought he was going to settle in Austria, his home country. On October 30, 1953, Eisler wrote a letter to the Central Committee of the SED, pleading that his “last mistakes” be forgiven (Bunge, 1991:263). He points out that he tried to do useful work for the GDR and that he believes his national anthem, his Party Cantata, the tunes he wrote for Becher song texts, and several other compositions “reached the masses.” But he also mentions that more than 500 compositions of his were never performed and that “Musicians who did perform or review his works were treated as representatives of an unwelcome artistic trend.” As for the Faustus debate, he explains: “After the Faustus attack I noticed that any impulse to write music had left me. Thus, I ended in a state of the deepest depression as I’ve hardly ever experienced it. I have no hope to regain the impulse to write music, which is essential to my life, anywhere but in the GDR…I can imagine my place as an artist only in that part of Germany were the foundations of socialism are newly laid.” This remarkable document reveals how deeply—in spite of the disgraceful treatment he suffered—Eisler felt committed to the socialist project. After all, he had been a successful composer of film scores, in Hollywood as well as in Western Europe, and did not depend on the support the GDR provided to its artists. Eisler returned to East Berlin, where he lived until his death in 1962, though even during the late 50s he occasionally had his problems with the Party’s cultural line. In early summer of 1956, I ran into him at a popular watering hole of the East Berlin intelligentsia. A few days earlier, posters announcing a concert of his chamber music had been plastered over, an indication that the performance was cancelled. Very

GDR THEATER’S BEGINNING AND END 35

annoyed about another such suppression of his work, I asked Eisler if he knew the reason for the cancelation, but he replied he wouldn’t know and couldn’t care less, anyway. Taken aback, I blurted out, “So, why do you compose since you don’t seem to care if the stuff is performed?” Eisler Retorted: “Out of boredom, why else do you think? That’s why Brecht is writing, too, out of sheer boredom!” Having spoken he steered towards the bar, leaving me standing there somewhat baffled but getting his point. He never did, however, compose the opera of Johannes Faustus, nor complete any other major work before he died. Brecht, the man who, according to Eisler, mainly worked so he would defeat boredom, kept being frequently accused of Formalism and other artistic errors. The situation changed somewhat after the overwhelming success of the Berliner Ensemble at the first “Theater des Nations” festival in Paris, 1954, made the GDR government finally aware of the great asset it owned in Brecht’s company. Earlier the same year, the Ensemble poster using an image by Pablo Picasso had still been criticized. “Letters from our readers” appeared in various papers which complained about the “Formalistic design,” though a few argued in defense of the poster, too.21 And the opening of Brecht’s staging of his play The Caucasian Chalk Circle was treated as a non-event by the party paper Neues Deutschland; only several weeks later did the official theater journal of the GDR, Theater der Zeit, publish a review by its editor-in-chief Erpenbeck.22 The headline read “Vorsicht Sackgasse!” (“Watch out: Dead End!”) On the other hand, due to his loyal attitude during the June 1953 uprising, and especially after the poet Johannes R.Becher was appointed Minister of Culture, Brecht’s position had been considerably strengthened. In January 1954, he was invited to join the Artistic Council of the minister’s office, in March his company moved into the Theater am Schiffbauerdamm, finally occupying its own house, and in June he was appointed vicepresident of the Academy of the Arts. With Becher installed as the man responsible for cultural matters, and with the socalled “thaw” that started a year after Stalin’s death, the first sharply restrictive phase of GDR cultural politics had ended. This respite of sorts didn’t last very long. The Hungarian revolution and its suppression, in October of 1956, inititated another period of ideological suspicion and control of artists and intellectuals in the GDR. After the Berlin Wall was erected, in August of 1961, and the GDR’s borders were closed for good, pressures increased further, at least for a while. The events surrounding a staging of Heiner Müller’s play Die Umsiedlerin (The Resettled Woman), in September of 1961, look somewhat like a remake of the Lucullus affair of 1951, without the happy ending. The production was closed

21

For samples of such letters see Dieckmann, 1992:229–230. Fritz Erpenbeck (1897–1975) was an actor, director and dramaturge in Berlin during the 1920s who later became a journalist and editor after he joining the German Communist Party in 1927. He had to emigrate in 1933, first to Czechoslovakia and, in 1937, to the Soviet Union, were he was an editor for such German-language literary journals as Das Wort. After returning to East Germany in 1945, Erpenbeck was an editor with several newspapers and, eventually, Theater der Zeit. In June 1951 he became head of the Department for Performing Arts in the Ministry for Education, which at the time had control of all cultural institutions. In 1959 Erpenbeck was appointed chief dramaturge at the East Berlin Volksbühne. 22

36 CARL WEBER

immediately after the opening, the director punished by being sent as a worker to a coal mine. During a heated discussion in a specially called closed session of the GDR Writers’ Union the play was roundly condemned. One speaker, Alfred Kurella,23 called it “cynical down to the very last syllable,” adding that he had met only two true cynics in his life, namely Radek and Bukharin. Invoking the names of these two victims of Stalin’s purges, who at the time still were pet villains of the Communist movement, was an especially ominous gesture. Müller eventually delivered a public self-critique at the Club of Cultural Workers. Nevertheless, he was expelled from the Writers’ Union and had to suffer the economic hardships of an author whose work could neither be published nor performed.24 It was Hanns Eisler who at the time quipped: “Müller, you should be glad you’re living in a country where literature is taken so seriously” (Müller, 1992:175). Eisler had a point there. Comparing the position of the theater in East Germany during the first four years of the GDR with its situation in the five years that have passed since the collapse of the socialist German state, the outside observer has to be struck by what is similar as well as by what is profoundly different. Today, as in the early 50s, the theater is generously subsidized, though the subsidies are shrinking and a reassessment of the whole system of state and municipal theaters appears to be inevitable. Today, as forty years ago, there is an audience accustomed to a theater that offers not only entertainment but also an exploration of socially relevant issues. Theater workers certainly still regard their art as an important contribution to the national dialogue on burning contemporary questions, as their predecessors in the early GDR did. The difference is, of course, their complete freedom from ideological restraints, all those restrictions that often were so stifling for the theater during GDR history. This privilege, granted in a Western democracy with its free market economy, has replaced other privileges. During the years of the GDR, the theater enjoyed an authority and an attention by the body politic that hasn’t been equaled in German history. It was assigned a central role in the building of a new socialist society, and socialism—warts and all—was during the 1950s still regarded as the only reasonable perspective for a post-Nazi Germany by most of the artists and intellectuals in the GDR. The state endowed those who worked in the theater with a position of importance and a sense of pride in their political and social role. This position has been rapidly eroded since the Berlin Wall came down. Like all privileges, such an importance came at a price, a price that was high and, in many an instance, painful to pay.

23

Alfred Kurella (1895–1975), a painter and graphic artist, joined the German Communist Party in 1918, the Russian Party in 1924. During most of his life, Kurella held leading positions in the political and cultural institutions of the Party, first in Weimar Germany, later in the Soviet Union, and, after his return in 1954, in the GDR. He published several books and worked extensively as a journalist and editor. At the time of the Umsiedlerin affair, Kurella was head of the Politburo’s Cultural Commission. 24 See Heiner Müller, Krieg ohne Schlacht: Leben in zwei Diktaturen (Müller, 1992:160–187). Müller’s autobiography provides a great number of characteristic details which illustrate the political and cultural climate of the GDR during the 50s. (see also Jost Hermand’s discussion of Müller’s book following this essay. Ed.)

GDR THEATER’S BEGINNING AND END 37

References Ein Beginn der (un) freiwilligen Selbstkontrolle? (1993) Theater Heute, 12, 1617 Brecht, Bertolt (1967) Gesammelte Werke 16: Schriften zum Theater. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Brecht, Bertolt (1993) Journals 1934–1955. Translated by Hugh Rorrison. Edited by John Willett. London: Methuen Bunge, Hans (1991) Editor. Die Debatte um Hanns Eislers “Johann Faustus”: Eine Dokumentation. Berlin: Basisdruck Dieckmann, Friedrich (1992) Die Plakate des Berliner Ensembles 1949–1989. Hamburg: Europäische Verlagsanstalt Fest, Joachim C. (1970) The Face of the Third Reich: Portraits of the Nazi Leadership. Translated by Michael Bullock. New York: Pantheon Lucchesi, Joachim (1993) Editor. Das Verhör in der Oper: Die Debatte um die Aufführung “Das Verhör des Lukullus” von Bertolt Brecht und Paul Dessau. Berlin: Basisdruck Mahl, Bernd (1986) Brechts und Monks “Urfaust” Inszenierung mit dem Berliner Ensemble 1952/53. Stuttgart, Zürich: Belser Müller, Heiner (1992) Krieg ohne Schlacht: Leben in zwei Diktaturen. Cologne: Kiepenheuer & Witsch Schölling, Traute (1993) On with the Show? The Transition to Post-Socialist theater in Eastern Germany. Theater Journal, 45, 21–33 Völker, Klaus (1975) Brecht Chronicle. New York: Seabury Press Zimmer, Dieter E. (1993) Berliner Aufstände und Abgründe. Die Zeit, 37 (Sept. 17), 15

38

Discursive Contradictions: Questions About Heiner Müller’s “Autobiography” Jost Hermand

Heiner Müller’s recent autobiography provides an occasion to review Müller’s long career as the successor to Brecht and the most important GDR playwright for the last thirty years. The book is interesting in part for its historic scope, and in part for the revisionist reading that Müller gives of his career: he claims never to have been a sincere Communist, but instead to have been always a “playwright” purely. His political disclaimer seems scarcely credible in view of the consistently leftist social critique he has carried out in his plays, which show an attraction to anarchistic, asocial utopia. Müller is now placing his hopes for social revolution on the contradictions and violence endemic to the victorious capitalist world. KEY WORDS: Müller, Brecht, utopia, Foucault, Red Army Faction Who would have expected an autobiography of 426 pages from Heiner Müller, a dramatist whose works over the past 15 years have grown shorter and terser, finally ending in silence? During the same period, however, many things have happened that almost no one would have expected: not only the interminable chancellorship of Helmut Kohl, but also the resurgence of German nationalism, xenophobia, the collapse of the GDR, the rapid thinning of the ozone layer, the demise of the forests, and the subsequent paralysis of those intellectuals on the left who had formerly pushed so actively for socialism, or at least greater democratization. In view of this situation, in which everything is threatening to come apart at the seams (despite the Federal Republic’s ever-gleaming facade of prosperity), widespread feelings of posthistoire, as we know, have gripped the leftist intellectuals and produced an attendant retreat into the private, the personal, the autobiographical. Granted, the supra-individualism, activism, and solidarity that were promoted within this group during the 1960s and early 1970s were weak even then and arose often enough from entirely personal frustrations. But they were at least present, and they had a certain effect. In contrast, almost all previous forms of political activism are now considered “out” as a result of the latest historical developments. In their place, a general disinterest in ideology, politics, and social systems has emerged among many, and a non-activist stance is considered to be the only possibility

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following the general loss of values. This lack of political involvement represents expressly selfish, materialistic, and careerist attitudes, or at best psychological, sexual, and biological ones. While some representatives of so-called postmodern concepts pass off the ongoing decay of meaning as a finally attained maturity in the Kantian sense, surviving activists see an emphatic lack of solidarity in this evernarrowing focus on the self. The resulting separatism renounces all political activism and plays right into the hands of powerholders. Heiner Müller, who has long been an author for all of Germany and not merely the East, has also embodied this trend for several years. Socialist elements clearly prevail in his early works, despite his preference for the crass, the violent, the shocking. Since the mid-1970s, however, an outlook which denies every possibility of historical progress has increasingly replaced these elements. This outlook has manifested itself in subjective-surrealistic, biological-sexual, mythological-literary, anti-Enlightenment poststructuralist terms. Although Müller, as a successor to Brecht, generally avoided private utterances early on as bourgeois and therefore suspect, his later development rendered an intense self-examination, understood in the subjective sense, inevitable. This self-examination resulted in an expansive autobiography. Nevertheless, self-examination is but one aspect of a work which describes itself as a “War Without Battles: A Life in Two Dictatorships” and which repeatedly attempts to join the personal, beyond the purely subjective, with concurrent historical events, especially Müller’s life in the former Soviet Occupation Zone and later German Democratic Repulic. In this respect, too, this work is thoroughly characteristic of its period, in contrast to many of Müller’s previous works, which were noteworthy precisely becasue of their peculiarity, their uniqueness. His autobiography belongs to that group of books written by disillusioned East German authors who sought to justify their former views and who did not, like many West German leftists, succumb to political resignation in the late 1970s, as was widely expected. On the contrary, these East German authors strove, even under the most adverse oppression and censorship, to retain the political identity that they had formed in the GDR. In his autobiography, Müller nevertheless differs from the authors of these other works in that he consciously denies the disillusionment and depicts himself as politically uninvolved from the start in order to invest his life, beyond all political upheavals, with a certain coherence—at least in terms of ideology and a humane outlook. In any case, he does so in an extremely provocative way that others will certainly denounce as immoral, because Müller characterizes himself as an author who was never really politically committed but who limited himself from the beginning to an attitude of cool observation. He writes that he had lost or suppressed all illusions of bourgeois idealism as early as childhood, when he experienced under National Socialism his father’s arrest as an SPD-member and under the Red Army brutal actions in the Soviet Occupation Zone. In response, he writes that he merely concentrated on himself and his pleasure in writing. Müller’s autobiography is therefore full of statements in which he deliberately downplays his entry into the SED in 1948 as well as the socialist themes of his early works. One passage reads, “I could never say that I am a Communist. It was a charade. In my heart it never concerned me. I have often said and maintained that I could identify with this violence, with this terror, because it was a counterviolence, a

HEINER MÜLLER’S “AUTOBIOGRAPHY” 41

counterterror against the previous one. In principle, I went through it untouched” (61).1 The following sentences seem just as unequivocal: “I don’t know if membership in the SED, or political activity at all, was that important to me. It naturally occupied me, but there is in me a center that was untouched by everything. It was untouched by the Nazi period as well as by the time that followed it” (64). Müller admits that there were situations in his life where he acted “politically and not as an artist” and that he always made a clear distinction between art and politics as well as “art and life” (290). “My true existence” in the GDR, he explains, “was as an author, and specifically as an author of plays” (181). At one point he writes even more succinctly: “Writing was more important to me than morality” (180). As Müller continually assures us, his final aim in life was merely “to indulge in the luxury of writing” (287). Consequently, the “conflicts within the SED” reportedly interested him “only with respect to art and literature” (115) and not as questions of political outlook. By his own account, that is why he did not renew his Party membership in 1954 and did not view his 1961 expulsion from the GDR’s Writers’ Union particularly tragically. He explains in this context, “Being treated unjustly was never a problem for me. I knew that there was no justice, either from the one side or the other. Therefore, I could never really rebel against it” (76). From the beginning, he purportedly concerned himself only with the plays to be written, whereby he never relied on certain central ideas for his subject matter but always on material that he “experienced” in social reality. Worldviews, theorems, ideologies—be these proletarian socialism or bourgeois idealism—were topics of relative indifference to him. Müller maintains that he only wanted to be an “author,” nothing more. For that reason he was also never politically disappointed, either by the outcome of the June 17 uprising, the building of the Wall, or the so-called “transition” of 1989. All of these events reportedly did nothing more than leave him cold. An author like Peter Weiss, for whom the GDR represented a “hope,” is therefore depicted as being blind. Even after writing the Aesthetics of Resistance (Die Asthetik des Widerstands), this man still had “a monastic attitude toward utopia,” as Müller reportedly learned from him in conversations (224). To be sure, Müller does not make laughing stocks of other leftist authors who would have felt very much in step with their time, but he does characterize them as naive. Müller repeatedly criticizes works that careen into the philosophical, the ideological, and the utopian, instead of steadfastly adhering to the artist’s personal experience of concrete situations. All of those vantage points are useless superstructural fantasies for Müller. “I don’t want to know what holds the world together at its center,” he explains, “I want to know how it unfolds. It’s more a matter of experience than knowledge” (271). At this point, Müller silently passes over the Hegelian dictum, often quoted in leftist circles, that only apprehended reality is really “real.” So much for the half-existentially colored, half-ideologically appeasing discourse in which Müller claims never to have been a political author. However, two other features of the text, whether intentionally provocative or not, form an undercurrent to this discourse, and these refute the foregoing argumentation or at least call it into question. One is Müller’s ongoing interpretation of his own works; the other is his

1

All quotations cited in the text are from Heiner Müller, Krieg ohne Schlacht: Leben in zwei Diktaturen (Cologne: Kiepenheuer & Witsch, 1993).

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almost manic fixation with the phenomenon of “GDR socialism,” which lies at the heart of almost all of his plays as well as this autobiography. One may start with those works that Müller treats in great detail in this book, albeit always in the attempt to interpret them from the perspective of political disinterest. This neutrality may indeed characterize some of the works written after 1975, but it in no way applies to his early texts, in which a clear socialist perspective prevails. Be it genuine or feigned, a great boldness characterizes this perspective, and it cannot be easily dismissed. “My works are my watchmen,” wrote Brecht during the Second World War, when he was plagued by passing moods of resignation in the wake of German victories. Müller, who otherwise knows Brecht by heart, should not have forgotten this line. Albeit deeply troubled and with great reluctance, he finally admits in this autobiography that in the late 1940s and early 1950s he wrote not only a radio play which dealt with “the unmasking of an evil bookkeeper who committed sabotage for the class enemy” (56), but also his “Klettwitz Report” for the party paper Unity (Einheit) (144), a proletarian festival play with workers’ choruses and dance groups written to celebrate the opening of the Werner Seelenbinder Hall (85), free renderings of foreign “Stalin Hymns” for the Central Council of the Free German Youth (117), a “Text on Lenin” (at the instigation of Paul Dessau) for New Germany (Neues Deutschland), and finally his reconstruction piece The Wage Shark (Der Lohndrücker) for a special issue of the periodical New German Literature (Neue Deutsche Literatur) titled “The Working Class and Worker’s Movement in German Literature.” Further, The Wage Shark was awarded the Heinrich Mann Prize of the GDR as a work of Socialist Realism. An important example of this early political involvement, which Müller only touches on in the foregoing litany, is the play Ten Days that Shook the World (Zehn Tage, die die Welt erschütterten) which he wrote with Hagen Stahl in 1957 for the 40th anniversary of the Soviet October Revolution and which was produced on the Volksbühne, the “People’s Stage,” with great success. There is scarcely another East German play from these years that so clearly identifies itself with Communism. It belongs to the young Müller’s best works, in terms of both content and language, and at times surpasses even The Wage Shark in the complexity of its probing. The piece closes with an address in which Lenin, who minces no words, emphatically endorses a party literature and a party press and, in view of the revolution that must still be carried out, sharply rejects all false tolerance toward liberal “deviants.” “We do not intend,” Lenin declares in the last line of the play, “to submit ourselves to the ultimatums of small groups of intellectuals who have no masses standing behind them.” Partisanship and realism, the two primary requirements of a Marxist aesthetic, also characterize Müller’s plays The Correction (Die Korrektur), The Resettler (Die Umsiedlerin), The Construction (Der Bau), and Cement (Zement). All of these provocatively examine the difficulties of implementing socialism, but they never relinquish the idea of utopia to which Müller lent his most meaningful formulation in the line, “I am the pontoon between ice age and commune.” As already stated, Müller’s early works are not the only statements that speak against his claim of absolute political indifference. The way in which he confronts the phenomenon of GDR socialism is full of apparent and hidden contradictions. One does not need extensive training in discourse analysis to see that on this point, too, an undercurrent of arguments revealing sympathy and participation continually offsets

HEINER MÜLLER’S “AUTOBIOGRAPHY” 43

those which profess a critical distance. In this respect alone, Müller’s claim of conscious uninvolvement loses much of its otherwise compelling persuasive force. He thus judges the GDR’s birth and subsequent development-that period in which he had to struggle arduously as a young author for existence and recognition—quite harshly at times and speaks bitterly of the many jobs taken merely for survival that purportedly kept him from his own work. In any case, this criticism applies mostly to the shortcomings of lower officials, while Müller tends to spare the party’s bigwigs. Above all, however, Ulbricht appears not only as a negative figure in these passages but also as a tragically embattled one who had to govern a people of “enemies.” When the GDR’s writers, with the exception of Peter Hacks, purportedly voted for Müller’s expulsion from the writer’s guild in 1961, Ulbricht (according to Müller) is supposed to have said afterwards that he would have spoken for “education” rather than expulsion in such a case (182). Müller identifies Brecht’s influence as the primary force that enabled him to finally get through these difficult years. “My support for the GDR,” he writes in this context, “was connected with Brecht. Brecht legitimized living in the GDR. That was extremely important. One had to stay because Brecht was there. Because of that, there was a reason to accept the system absolutely. Brecht showed that one could be a Communist and an artist” (112). Müller speaks just as positively about Helene Weigel, who, above all, purportedly encouraged him to write a self-criticism in order to appease the SED after its sharp condemnation of The Resettler (Die Umsiedlerin). Müller comments on the GDR’s last phase with almost greater insight. On the very basis of the state’s repressive tolerance, he rose to become a respected author in the late GDR and even received the National Prize in 1987. Like many other East German Communists, he viewed Gorbachev’s reform program in those years as a “sign of hope for the failing enterprise of ‘socialism’” (348). The first parts of his scene-sequence Volokolamsk Highway (Wolokolamsker Chaussee) favor this reform, and Müller even submitted the work for consideration to Honecker in 1987 (349). As a variation on the familiar Marxist motto, “Socialism or barbarism!,” he now proclaimed the maxim, “Ruin or barbarism!” (348), until he too had to witness how the GDR was changing ever more clearly into a “mausoleum,” in which the dead buried their dead. Müller apparently found it undignified, however, to leave the GDR or to agitate openly against it. Its only identity had been a forcibly imposed socialism, without which it was doomed to be silently absorbed by the economically all-powerful Federal Republic. But even as the end of the Cold War finally led to the dissolution of the GDR in late autumn of 1989, Müller did not become the Thersites of his country but insisted instead on provocatively leftist positions. Thus, at one of the large Alexanderplatz demonstrations on November 4, 1989, he did not call for the regime’s overthrow but for the “establishment of independent unions” that would represent the “interests of the workers against the state and the Party,” and he depicted himself as one of the privileged whom the Party had consciously isolated from the working people (355). This does not mean that Müller poses as a stubborn blockhead in such passages. He certainly understood that the GDR’s socialism did not emerge from a revolutionary mass movement but owed its existence solely to the Red Army’s bayonettes. It presumably succeeded for a while because the majority of the people, because of their Protestant, Prussian, or fascist conceptions of authority, accepted the socialist regime as their new authority. Despite all of his readiness to understand the

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objective difficulties that confronted this state from its inception, Müller points time and time again with considerable harshness to the flagrant mistakes of the SED. These are not the mistakes, however, that the liberals in East and West Germany ascribed to the SED regime—these being the inadequate fulfillment of the population’s consumerist wishes, insufficient erotic liberty, the suppression of all opinion against the regime, etc. On the contrary, Müller faults the SED regime for adhering far too slavishly to the value system of the preceding bourgeoisie. With its well-intended but ineffective popular front potitics, this regime’s gravest mistake was, according to him, its resolute attempt to win over those classes who had nothing to gain but much to lose from socialism. Instead, one should have clearly taken the side of the previously oppressed, i.e. the workers and the peasants. Above all, in the lower levels of the party, that is to say among the petty bourgeois bureaucrats, one purportedly saw the main enemies of the state not in the middle-class but in the “proletariat and the young” (89). As a result, those who were truly committed to the ideas of Communism were continually impeded. For that reason, the “Marxists” in the GDR, as Müller illustrates above all with artists and literary historians, were not winners but losers (122). These apparatchiks reportedly rejected everything that was anti-bourgeois, even representatives of the great Soviet avant-garde such as Meyerhold or Mayakovski, or the works of Brecht. Their goal was a conservative National Front politics whose final aim was not a truly liberated, classless society but a socialist national community that merely entrenched the existing differences (123). From the beginning, the party saw Müller, too, as a troublemaker on the path to the “single great cultured nation” because of the radical proletarian outlook born of his working class origins. With The Wage Shark (Der LohndrücKer), he had already rejected a cultural policy that would have been fulfilled if people had gone about the streets of Leipzig whistling Thomas Mann’s Magic Mountain (Der Zauberberg) in folk song form, as Johannes R.Becher (according to Hans Mayer) is supposed to have said both in jest and seriously. For this reason, the Party continually opposed Müller, as he relates in great detail, with virtually inconceivable bigotry in the form of obstacles, censorship, bans, etc., in order to intimidate him and steer him onto the official course. All of that, as he so often points out, could not deter him from keeping to the correct path, as he saw it, which was the way of irritation, of questioning the perceived non-Marxist cultural policy of the state. Whoever expects confessions of Western freedom finally attained, of democracy, self-realization, or the satisfaction of material consumption from this book will be necessarily disappointed. Müller does not curry favor with the capitalistic West or even offer his services to it. Instead, he insists on an extreme outsider’s position that he equates with a Marxism better than that which existed under Stalin, Brezhnev, Ulbricht, or Honecker. Although the West plays a continually present but marginal role in Müller’s autobiography, it does not fare any better than the East in many respects, and actually on all levels: the political, social, and cultural. Beginning with the political, Müller sees a politician like Adenauer in no better a light than Ulbricht, and in the end just as “sinister” (136). He does not glorify June 17, 1953, as a people’s rebellion but emphatically stresses the participation of “young people from West Berlin” in these agitations (132). He further writes that Ulbricht issued an explicit “order not to shoot” to the GDR police that day and that the Russians also intervened “unhappily” in the whole affair (134). He speculates that the CIA was probably “mixed up” in the turmoil and that it had already initiated acts of sabotage in the

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GDR and constructed a “huge propaganda machine” in order to conduct a psychological war against the GDR (66). Even more explicitly, Müller depicts the removal of Allende in Chile as a CIA coup (323). He also clearly faults the West for many of today’s wars, which rage, in his view, as wars that “combat unemployment by simultaneously creating and destroying jobs” (347). For these reasons, Müller writes that a life in the West never really attracted him. In younger years, when the Wall was as yet unbuilt, he would simply drive to West Berlin to “go to the cinema or buy cigarettes” (62). Compared with the GDR, he reports that he never saw anything better in the Federal Republic. In the end, “the terror in a small Swabian city was only bad in a different way than the terror in Strausberg” in Brandenburg (360). He writes that, even today, when he walks through Cologne’s shopping district and sees all of its stuffed shops, he succumbs to veritable “attacks of rage at the vermin who peddle their shit to the Third World in exchange for its products” (322). The United States fascinated him only to the extent that it still possesses partially undestroyed landscapes, while the cities in that country, in other words the “capitalistic USA,” only strengthened his belief in Marxism (300). In all of these countries, where heavy industry—or the dollar and the Deutschmark—rule, the individual, in Müller’s view, is “disappearing” ever more rapidly (347). In a production of Hamlet at the Deutsches Theater in Berlin during the political transition of late autumn 1989, Müller therefore saw to it that “Stalin’s ghost, which appeared at the beginning ‘became’ the Deutsche Bank at the end” (353). Western cultural policy does not fare much better with Müller. In the early 1980s, he explained over and over again that there was an abundance of promising young artists in the GDR as the combined result of expectations that had been awakened by Marxism and a conflicting cultural policy that was wrong and frustrating. In other words, this state, against its own will, was a veritable talent factory. The West, on the other hand, was no longer producing serious literature, given its tendency toward trivializing consumerism and the onedimensionality observed by Herbert Marcuse. For a long time, Westerners subsisted only on the work of Eastern dissidents in this area: the pop and rock music wave that has flourished for decades in the West also finds no mercy in Müller’s eyes, especially not the form that was imported into the GDR. Müller characterizes this music’s “second-hand character” as a “belated copy of fads” (288). He also maintains that there is a “repressive cultural policy” in the West which emerges not from a particular party but from the “pressure of commerce” (160). Culture is so bland there, so poor in earth-shaking themes, that one takes absolutely no notice in West Germany, for example, of the political tragedy of a Philoctetes or of the “tragic dimension of history” (190). Consequently, Müller was largely unmoved by the cultural-political demands of the 1968 protesters, whose practical achievements, as Michel Foucault later confirmed, consisted finally of “changing the structure of the universities to suit the needs of modern industry” (212). In view of such statements, which one could easily continue to cite, it can scarcely be said that Heiner Müller sees a viable alternative to Stalinist socialism, which he rejects, in the political, social, and cultural conditions of the West. However, the Cold Warriors in both camps, who were never able to think beyond their black and white clichés, will certainly ask, “What is his alternative then?” Based upon a more precise reading of this book, as well as all the plays, statements, and interviews that precede it, it becomes clear that Müller finally sees a different, better, more radical form of

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socialism as the only alternative to rigidified conditions in East and West. It was and is his intention, both politically and culturally, to liberate these rigid conditions. This wish, this utopia, which no true Marxist can ultimately abandon, manifests itself politically by constantly emphasizing the specifically proletarian elements within communism in order to discourage all of those who, in an anti-utopian sense, prematurely embrace the illusion that it is possible to settle into a “really existing” socialism without first creating the social, economic, and cultural prerequisites for it. Müller therefore emphasizes again and again that he comes “from below” and that he never gave up his proletarian perspective in later life. He thoroughly shares with Brecht, as well as all representatives of the old united front politics, the demand for a “dictatorship of the proletariat.” Nothing appears more mistaken to him than simply to abolish the class struggle in the wake of mendacious popular front politics and to declare that the people now live in a “socialist national community” in which there are “no more classes and no class struggle” (124). Müller is even more outraged that the SED, especially during the GDR’s early days, continually made concessions to German nationalist traditions and consciously imitated, for example, the “Nazi uniforms of the Wehrmacht” in the uniforms of the National People’s Army (126). When Brecht reportedly protested to Politburo member Willi Stoph about this similarity, he received as an answer, “One has to win over all of the classes, even the bourgeois, and therefore the nationalist element is being emphasized” (127). Müller directs the same criticism at the SED’s cultural ideas. In his view, the Party’s executives, along with their lower-middle-class supporters, found it far more important to win over the “bourgeois elements” for the new state and to play down its socialist ones by using culturally conservative gestures. They pursued that course instead of reviving the leftist avant-garde’s traditions of the 1920s in the work of Meyerhold, Eisenstein, Mayakovski, Serafinowicz, Gladkov, Fadeyev, Brecht, Eisler, and Heartfield as well as the authors from the League of Revolutionary and Proletarian Writers; further pursuing the Bitterfeld Path2 that had been opened with the motto, “Take up the pen, comrade!” and which was, in Müller’s view, in some respects “very sensible” (153); promoting the direction taken by Ruth Berghaus at the Berliner Ensemble; or supporting the politically active authors involved with the Free German Youth periodical, Young Art (Junge Kunst). In contrast to those who had strong avant-garde goals, the party allowed only “tradition,” “middle-class morality,” and the “bourgeois concept of art” (124). In any case, this is only one side of Müller’s “better” socialism. His idea of a united front, which has a proletarian cast, occasionally includes an asocial, anarchistic, radical leftist perspective which is just as emphatic. Müller’s consequent abandonment of the proletariat manifests itself in an artist’s existence, which likewise contains clearly antibourgeois elements because of its relative outsiderness or its lack of possessions, its distaste for everything official or representative, as well as its preference for a nonbourgeois milieu. Nevertheless, because of its privileged character, the artist’s existence gradually loses its connection to the specifically proletarian. In order to soothe his ensuing bad conscience, Müller does not miss the opportunity to inform us in great detail about his emphatically asocial lifestyle. “I am

2

The Bitterfeld Path (Bitterfelder Weg), formulated in 1959, was a government initiative which sent intellectuals into the factories and encouraged workers to write. (Ed.)

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a cave-dweller or a nomad,” he writes. “In any case, I cannot get rid of the feeling that I fit in nowhere. There is no home for me, only places where I stop over. My newly built apartment in Berlin-Friedrichsfelde, an example of the GDR’s prefab style of building, has holes in its roof, and for seven years the rain came in. I find it pleasant, however, because it negates the concept of apartment as ‘domicile’” (308). All that he reportedly needs is a “bed” and a “table to work at” (308). On the other hand, like almost all asocial persons, he apparently cannot renounce “pubs” (88). “Pubs are paradises from which one can banish time” (91) and where the material for literary work virtually lies around on the tables. Regular work or even a “subsistence job” seem contemptible to him (106). Müller also considers “keeping appointments” to be a philistine virtue. As a good bohemian, he would prefer that others, especially the Party’s functionaries, see him as an “extremely gifted swine” rather than a dutyconscious comrade. He generally considers all moral values inherited from the former upper classes to be automatically suspect, if not hated. This pronounced asocialness emerges just as clearly in Müller’s associations with women. Although these do not receive extensive treatment in his book, they nevertheless furnish some interesting information. For example, Müller reports that Inge Müller, his second wife, managed to negotiate the poor conditions of the 1950s only with difficulty because of her upper-class origins, while it was no problem for him “to be asocial” (159). Moreover, Müller makes no secret that he always had a “proletarian lust” for upper-class women (139). He certainly had the opportunity to fulfill such inclinations, but he always decisively rejected binding relationships. When one of his early girlfriends became pregnant, he viewed this circumstance as a disgusting “deprivation of freedom” (109). In this area, he almost exclusively emphasizes the provocatively non-bourgeois and therewith the asocial in addition to his affinity for artistic partnerships. If Müller’s asocial socialism or asocialism appeared only in his preference for the nomad’s life, pubs, and women, then it would hardly be worth talking about. In reality, however, he wants to glorify his fundamental “exit from bourgeois life” (294), which he considers indispensable for the entry into socialism. This attitude expresses itself most clearly in his fascination for certain forms of terrorism and dissidence, both of which he considers to be the most important driving impulses of revolution in our time. The idea of “the rebirth of the revolutionary from the spirit of the partisan,” for which he is in part indebted to Carl Schmitt (347), continually surfaces next to his proletarian class perspective. Müller writes that, in order to combine the concepts of individual and collective rebellion as closely as possible, “The partisan may very well be a dog on the freeway. It only depends, though, on how many dogs gather on the freeway” (347). There are three thematic complexes with which Müller attempts to examine this thesis in his autobiography: Ulrike Meinhof and the Red Army Faction, the Charles Manson family, and Brecht’s Fatzer fragment, which Müller also attempted to edit. “The destruction of middle-class life’s context, the rejection of bourgeois life and the adoption of illegality,” was what interested Müller most about the Red Army Faction (294). To protest the rigidified conditions of their world, the group around Andreas Baader (together with Ulrike Meinhof, who was married to the editor-inchief of Konkret at the time) reportedly first “threw all of their furniture out the window” (294). After that, they set a store on fire as a protest against imperialist atrocities in the Third World and so brought “the Vietnam War into the supermarket”

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(314). Only hypocrites could bristle at the “theological flame center of terrorism” which Müller sees in acts that produced such shocking effects precisely because of their apparent senselessness (316). Even those incidents in the RAF’s history “in which a dissident was executed” belong, in Müller’s view, to “the tragedy of military groups,” which “never get a chance to succeed” because of their opponents’ superior strength. Therefore, their potential for violence inevitably “turns inward” (311). Müller could not subsequently refrain from referring to Ulrike Meinhof in his acceptance speech for the Büchner Prize in Darmstadt and thus evoked an “icy silence” in the room (358). The publisher Siegfried Unseld was reportedly even more indignant when Müller suggested that he include a “gallows photograph of Ulrike Meinhof” in a projected book titled Shakespeare Factory, and he simply abandoned the entire enterprise (295). Because of his interest in Charles Manson, Müller visited not only Death Valley, where Manson’s “family” allegedly began “to plan its campaigns,” but he also lived for a time in Beverly Hills across from the house in which Sharon Tate was murdered (283). Müller maintains that Manson only wanted to demonstrate with his murders that “Nixon had killed a lot more people than he” and consciously to provoke Americans by making himself the “scapegoat” of an inhumane system (283). Müller finds Susan Atkins just as intriguing. She was one of Sharon Tate’s murderers and was known for her “scaring phonecalls.” During the Manson trial, she reportedly declared in the courtroom, “When we go through your bedrooms with butcher knives, you will know the truth” (294). Müller writes that he could not free himself of this remark for a long time, and he later put it as the last line into the mouth of Ophelia in his Hamletmachine. Brecht’s Fatzer material inspired Müller in a similarly productive fashion. He considers it to be “the best text of all by Brecht” (226), if not a “text for the century” in terms of its “linguistic quality” and “density” (309). Koch was originally “the terrorist” and Fatzer “the anarchist” in this play. In later versions, however, Koch increasingly becomes Keuner, a Lenin figure or “pragmatist who attempts the possible” (310). In its blending of Koch/Keuner, this work is also “a play about the RAF” for Müller. In fact, in its depiction of two protagonists, it stands in a much older German tradition which includes The Robbers (Die Räuber), Faust, Danton’s Death (Dantons Tod), and Grabbe’s Gotland (310). The problem reappears in Brecht’s The Measures Taken (Die Massnahme) and Mauser, in which people have to “force themselves to kill” because of terrorist-revolutionary intentions (312). The sections on the RAF, the Manson family, and Brecht’s Fatzer fragment reveal that Müller’s “better” socialism finally amounts to anarchy based on assassination, because only hot, seething inhumanity can oppose the cold inhumanity of a fossilized world “administered” by bureaucrats and apparatchiks. Despite all of his serious appeals to “the proletarian,” Müller is not really concerned with planned class actions but with the surrealistically explosive acts of individuals who are determined to fight to the end. Their adversaries are not only capitalist or socialist governments but all power structures. On this point, he fully agrees with Foucault, who reportedly said to Müller in Paris “in the year of Stammheim” that in East Germany only “the dissidents” interested him, and in West Germany “the terrorists” (306). We can now draw some conclusions. In contrast to the widespread resignation among German leftists, the political, social, and cultural viewpoint that Müller develops in his autobiography certainly attempts to advance an alternative to past as

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well as present conditions. It does so by foregrounding terrorists who saw themselves forced to commit acts that were just as terrible and inhuman as the inhuman world of exploitation, atrocity, killing, and rape in which they saw themselves. They did so simply to be heard amid the din of the mass media that otherwise drowns everything out. It is also a view, however, that abandons the older program of the Enlightenment, which proceeds from the idea of humanity’s progressive emancipation. Despite his claiming rather cynically to be a genuine “lover of catastrophes” like Ernst Jünger (281), Müller nevertheless remains a “partisan,” if only in the sense described by Carl Schmitt, whom Müller mentions seven times in this book. By reading Schmitt’s works, in particular the Theory of the Partisan, Müller understood that “total programs for world reform” engender not only the hope for a better future but also “a total concept of the enemy” which is just as inhuman in its fundamentalist character as the inhumanity it proposes to abolish in the name of progress. Just as illuminating for Müller is Foucault’s view that even the Enlightenment’s “humanistic” efforts at reform ultimately amounted to “control, organization, discipline” and therefore “exclusion.” Those who were concerned with “the emancipation of humanity” also viewed every “enemy” as an “enemy of humanity” and therefore “no longer a human being” but a quantité négligeable that was to be removed with Jacobin forcefulness. Müller sees the “fundamental question” of all political debate in this phenomenon (315). On the other hand, an outlook which has no “enemy” at all and which accepts “exploitation as a phenomenon of life” is just as worthy of rejection (314). Thus, a“paradox” for which there is ultimately no “solution” continually presents itself at this level (316). We read that whoever fails to understand this point will never develop a sense for “human tragedy,” or for “the unbearability of being” as such. This circumstance presumably explains “the susceptibility of intellectuals to ideology,” particularly in Europe, or the effort to finally resolve “the difficult paradox of human existence” by constructing a program for world reform and a distinct concept of an enemy (316). This outlook sounds radical indeed, but it is tempered by a sense of “tragedy” which frees its proponent from taking action. Müller therefore never became a Baader, a Manson, or a Fatzer but lived out his “aggressions” only in the theater, in the medium of art (335). In other contexts, Müller describes this response as his “nonactivism.” He nevertheless sees an important function in it. In a central passage, he writes, “I believe that art is an assault on this paradox. In any case, it is a provocation which refers to this paradox. That is the function of art. It is perhaps asocial or at least antisocial, but remains moral in its essence” (314). If Müller’s plays present increasingly shocking sequences of scenes which teem with fraternal fights, rapes, heart attacks, murders and other horrible deeds, then these features have not only a sensational effect but also aim to confront spectators violently, as in the work of Artaud, with humanity’s barbarian prehistory as well as its bloody present and looming catastrophes. They do this in order to rouse spectators out of the rigidified conditions in which they still accept every shining facade as a sign of inevitable progress toward greater prosperity or increasing democratization. As he reveals in his autobiography, but also often earlier, Müller employs not only the techniques common to Greek tragedy, Shakespeare, Kleist, Grabbe, and Hebbel to evoke fear and terror, but also Dostoevsky’s “violence,” Kafka’s alienation techniques, Jünger’s coldness, French surrealism’s foray into the wildly fantastic, Beuys’ ideas of concept art, Robert Wilson’s dissolution of “causality” (331), as well

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as poststructuralism’s decentralizing perspective, Müller writes apodictically that, today more than ever, art needs “a bloody root,” a feel for “shock” and “terror” (290), in order to have any disturbing effect at all. Its central task can be neither a precisely chosen cause nor “a dull actuality” (323). It must therefore renounce the Enlightenment’s method of friendly persuasion as well as the techniques of “negation” and “polemic” (289) by which the artist necessarily pursues a higher observation point than that of political and social reality. Art which attempts to retreat from reality into the completely unreal is just as ineffective, as demonstrated by many of the Prenzlauer Berg authors, whose art is a mere “art of illusion” (288). Müller therefore continually insists that relevant art must become as intensely involved as possible with its own surroundings, since one necessarily becomes estranged from the world in theoretical or ideological spheres, loses all sense of orientation in a vacuum, and suddenly faces only “oneself as the opponent” (351). Art needs “an agreement, be it one of hate or of love, with its object” (289). It may neither arrogantly deny the existing balance of power nor simply disregard it, but must always “chafe” against it (113). Even Brecht, with whom Müller has a love-hate relationship, occasionally understood this point, according to Müller. The “friendly” passages in Brecht are therefore not the most important ones, but those which are concerned with “fear” and “terrorism” (227). He knew after all that only “the beauty of describing a barbaric act” contains “the hope for utopia” (291). Müller thus returns continually to the consciously disturbing thesis that today’s art affords a Blochian “glimpse of a better world” only in its insistence on the terrible (290). The question as to how effective such art can be today receives no answer in the final, summarizing sections of Müller’s autobiography. Its author no longer lives in a country in which literature, for better or for worse, was “taken as seriously” as in the GDR (175). Instead, he lives in the increasingly one-dimensional world of a mass media culture to which even Adorno surrendered. At the end of his book, with all of its emphasis on the finally inescapable tragedy of human existence, Müller can only place his hopes in those “social contradictions” which are tied most closely to the prevailing capitalistic method of production. Now, after the collapse of the GDR, there is “once again a basis for class struggle” in Germany, Müller writes provocatively (360). And so Müller continues to hope for a world in which the masses, who have been repeatedly lulled to sleep, finally recognize their own interests and rebel against the principle of exploitation. He even hopes that there will once again be artists who, full of hatred for a world in which even the theater has become an institution for “the repression of freedom,” if not “a theater of police for police” (331), will struggle for a rebirth of the revolutionary from the spirit of partisanship. Because socialism is gone for the present, as Müller has often pointed out over the past several years, and capitalism has only one competitor, “namely itself,” the Cold War is necessarily shifting its course, and the territory of the West’s industrial countries, which have been shaken by economic crises, is becoming the battleground for coming conflicts. Translated by James Young

“Only Limited Utopias are Realizable”: On a Motif in the Plays of Peter Hacks Ulrich Profitlich and Frank Stucke

GDR playwright Peter Hacks has spent his entire career working out the implications of political idealism in a world of limited freedom for action. In his adaptations of classical authors and his plays about the GDR, he demonstrates that “future-oriented action” is possible, but that it must not be confused with either pure idealism or pure opportunism. This search for a middle ground where actions are based on possibilities beyond existing reality, while pragmatically acknowledging that reality, continues in Hacks’ post-1989 plays. Hacks’ continuing faith in the possibility of progress has prevented him from despairing during the current period of disillusionment in Eastern Germany. KEY WORDS: Hacks, utopia, progress, Aristophanes, Goethe In a 1972 essay, Peter Hacks identified a theme that appeared “with increasing clarity [to be] uniquely his”—the contradiction between that which is and that which is not, [but which a protagonist regards as possible…]. Since Polly and Mattukat, it has been the idea of perfection versus the desire for the feasible; and with the two figures I found my own characteristic heroes, who are able to mediate between the famously incompatible poles of Thought and Action by means of future-oriented deeds. Only limited utopias are realizable; resignation—and I say it without reluctance—fosters creativity. (Hacks, 1977:318f) On another occasion he identified his motivating concern as “the relation between the thinkable and the doable,” adding that this is the “point that should arouse the sympathy of today’s public” (Hacks, 1977:321). He was speaking during the time of the antiauthoritarian protest movement. Regardless of what the contemporary point of reference may be, “feasibility” is always a central criterion for Hacks in his assessment of contemporary circumstance, one to which he also subjects his dramatic characters.

52 ULRICH PROFITLICH AND FRANK STUCKE

Nowhere does this occur more explicitly than in the case of Mattukat, the Party functionary in the 1961 comedy Moritz Tassow. Responsible for implementing land reform in a Mecklenburg village by breaking up the large feudal estate into small family plots, he performs his task diligently, although in the process he helps to bring about Verhältnisse (conditions, a situation, relations) which run completely against his ultimate aim of establishing die Kommune (communism, a community, a farm commune/communal farm). He gives up hope of immediately achieving his goal because of his conviction that the “land hunger” of the former tenant farmers makes anything other than “redistribution” of the estate lands impractical; he sees this step as necessary for survival, for the consolidation of power, and thus ultimately for “communism.” Even Moritz Tassow, who favors faster collectivization, shows himself ready in the central conflict (Scene 8) to admit that Mattukat’s approach is “practical,” showing that he can understand an approach which makes use of the “idiots” rather than just the “unreliable” “smart” people. However, he disapproves of the methods which the Party believes will help promote land reform, especially a press campaign which culminates in the assertion that regressively private small enterprises are not only a current necessity, but also the economic reform of the future. Although Mattukat approves of this thesis as little as Tassow, he refuses to distance himself from it. His argument: what may not be true may nonetheless be “effective” (Hacks, 1972:214). Tassow thinks otherwise. He foresees far-reaching consequences from the Party’s lack of honesty that will finally undermine its strategy of deception: “mediocrity, and her spiteful sister hypocrisy, unto all eternity.” When Mattakut tries to placate him by saying, “When we have different people, we will speak differently,” Tassow asks, “What will make them different?” (Hacks, 1972: 214f). As surely as the play shows that Tassow’s strategy of abrupt change is doomed to failure, so the cited passages reveal the limits of the opposite position represented by Mattukat. The implication of Tassow’s objection is that Mattukat is ignoring a fundamental prerequisite for “communism;” that he is fixating on methods whose effect depends on misleading and contemptuous treatment of the “simple” people; that he is neglecting or in fact preventing the evolution in consciousness (the evolution of the “human”) that is an indispensable condition for the transition to the new society. Mattukat’s predicament is such that he has no answer to this. He leaves unresolved the accusation of an internal contradiction raised by Tassow’s question about the evolution of the “human.” Nor does the unfolding of the plot provide any resolution that would either confirm or lay to rest Tassow’s fears. It is left to the spectator to decide according to his own experience whether Mattukat’s strategy implies the defeat of his ultimate goal and the rule of mediocrity and hypocrisy “unto all eternity.” It becomes even harder to dismiss such fears when Mattukat’s successor Blasche turns out, in fact, to be a representative of the “mediocre” and of the immediate future in 1945. (He is a also a contemporary of the audiences that saw the original production in 1965). Blasche cannot even conceptualize the danger of which Tassow warns. This sort of dilemma, which raises stronger doubts about Mattakut’s role model status than the author’s cited remarks would suggest, does not arise in the case of the other character mentioned by Hacks, the heroine of the 1963 play Polly. The “dishonorable means” which Polly is not afraid to apply toward “desirable” ends (Hacks, 1977:346) are entirely helpful in achieving those ends; they never work simultaneously against them. Of the two distinctive aspects of Polly’s conduct—

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success and limitation—the accent is doubtless on success. Hacks himself connects this to the “societal relations…in which he lives”: “In the societal relations of socialism, the hero (indeed, the successful hero) is a normal occurence.” Hacks regards it as the task of the dramatist “to bring him to life on the stage, to display the man capable of controlling social processes” (Höpcke, 1965). The importance to Hacks of the other aspect, resignation, is shown by the juxtaposition of Polly with the Indians. The heroine declares, “Our pride should stop at the point where it becomes the ally of our enemy” (Hacks, 1965:49), whereas the noble savages represent virtue (the avoidance of “dishonorable means”) as an abstract principle. The basis of the Indians’ actions is the illusion that two different things are achievable at once in the presented confrontation of the amoral pirates with the only apparently moral capitalists: collective survival and coherent morality. When the either-or nature of a situation presents itself to them, as it does to the captive Indian prince Cawawkee, they always take a path that the play shows to be foolish: they thoughtlessly choose virtue, that is, a solution that makes further choice or intervention impossible. The stance of productive resignation demonstrated by Polly (which could be dispensed with only in the still transparent world of Hacks’ initial 1962 adaptation of Aristophanes,1 where the individual was granted freedom for action) establishes the background to Hacks’ 1966 interpretation of Hamlet2 and remains a theme from the time he devotes himself to the program of a socialist classicism: less in Margarete in Aix (1967) than in Amphitryon (1968) and Omphale (1969). Amphitryon presents the limitations inherent not only in the striving for perfection, but in the idea of perfection itself. The perfection not of the community but of the (loving) individual is demontrated by both the god Jupiter and by Alcmene, who is entirely withdrawn from society. Amphitryon, on the other hand, deformed by social involvement, neither achieves that which is possible given his abilities, nor feels compelled to strive for it—and thus he lacks what makes resignation possible in the first place. Resignation or a stance similar to it would, by contrast, arise if Amphitryon should accomplish the task set for him by the vanishing god: to become aware of his imperfection, but to “demand” the eternal. What Jupiter requires obviously concerns Amphitryon’s consciousness; it has nothing to do with his behavior. Here, in the field of action, the “demand” for the eternal obviously has limits. In any event, it doesn’t mean doing everything in one’s power to achieve perf ection, because perf ection would include the avoidance of that which deforms humanity, that is, withdrawal from the necessities of history. No such price is demanded of Amphitryon (“The problem is not that you are trapped in temporality” [Hacks, 1972:356]). In relation to the goal of “perfection,” this doubtless means a renunciation, the renunciation of what, according to the inherited model, is achievable, and which Amphitryon has in fact temporarily

1

Compare the reflections on Peace in Hacks 1977:341–344. Hacks regards Hamlet as the representative of the “hollow all-or-nothing position”: “too proud to accept merely relative progress, he thwarts any progress” (1965:154ff). To this extent he is the opposite of the hero of the early Columbus play, Eröffnung des indischen Zeitalters (1954), who likewise confronts the “imperfection of all improvements” and decides to do “what’s necessary” and to bring about “a little bit [of progress] in his own time” (Hacks, 1972:69).

2

54 ULRICH PROFITLICH AND FRANK STUCKE

achieved (namely, that in spite of his deeds he still “loves” Alcmene [Hacks, 1972: 352]). It is not resignation in the face of limited possibilities, but instead a voluntary renunciation for the sake of another, no less legitimate, purpose. That Amphitryon will respond appropriately to Jupiter’s exhortations presupposes, of course, that he does not resume the habit of measuring himself according to a standard within himself, one reflecting the meagerness of things achieved. Only in this way will the struggle to master everyday political reality take on the character of a conscious renunciation. Perfection in the interpersonal realm, the fulfillment of a loving relationship, is also the subject of Omphale (1969). Hercules and Omphale experience the same thing that Jupiter and Alcmene achieved—and which Amphitryon achieved, too, until he “ventured into history.” Here, too, perfect happiness prevails for only a set time, because other (and, broadly speaking, political) necessities interpose themselves. Of his own free will, Hercules breaks off “the all too amusing game,” (Hacks, 1972:411), and exercises patience, in that he “submits himself to evil purposes” and chooses the “long way around” (1972:412). Here, too, then, Hacks, demonstrates not resignation in the face of the unreachable, but renunciation of the reachable. And Hercules no doubt achieves this renunciation with a level of consciousness that in Amphitryon’s case is yet to be acquired. The role of the fanatic, on the other hand, is assigned to a minor character: Daphnis, whose idea of the “hero” is a person who does the “right thing” (Hacks, 1972:386), even when it is clear from the start that no outcome is possible but the hero’s own ruin. With benevolent condescension, Hercules addresses this successor to the Indians in Polly as a “child”: “Child, can something be right if it is pointless?” While Daphnis is dead set on abstract virtue, “worldly” Hercules’ notion of the “right” takes into account not only the morality of the desired goal, but also the effectiveness of the chosen methods and the price they carry. The mediation of thought and action through future-oriented deeds, which Hercules demands and accomplishes in Omphale, recurs in the related works Prexaspes (1968) and Numa (1971)—two plays in which politics occupies a central position rather than disrupting the action from the margins—and is the responsibility of the leader-characters: the Persian king Darios, who soberly does what is currently necessary in the knowledge that “better” things will follow (Hacks, 1976:388), and Party-chief Quirini, the leader of the socialist Republic of Italy, whom Hacks names “The Consequential.” Quirini, often misunderstood as a waverer, is distinguished by bringing no plan into the world without first building the cradle for it to mature in. All his thinking avoids the undoable, his actions the unthinkable. Necessity dictates when he can speak truthfully. Because he yearned for the realizable. (Hacks, 1978–89f) Numa, Quirini’s successor, is also repelled by impatient fanaticism. Indeed, in response to his lover’s question whether the realization of a goal can wait until “the day after tomorrow,” he explains, “If it can be done at all, then tomorrow…, if we don’t act correctly and quickly,” it will be in danger (Hacks, 1978:1 10f). Contrary to the situation in Tassow, where the attempt to immediately reach the desired end obviously has no chance, there is no hint that the success of the “very quick” action should be doubted. Numa only involves himself with the “feasible” (Hacks, 1978:111).

PETER HACKS 55

Common to both of these plays, separated as they are by ten years, is the emphatic demand that despite the necessary renunciation of immediate realization of the ideal, the idealistically-oriented intention must not be given up. Instead, one should hold all the more to a “standard” that transcends the merely existent. “Their dreams are as poor as their lives” goes the assessment of the citizens of Rome in Numa (Hacks, 1978:169), at least of the “common people,” who “don’t even aspire to” the “kind of happiness” that Numa intends for them (Hacks, 1978:119). Emma differs from these people in the exalted “demand…for love” in which she presumably persists beyond the end of the play—certainly she doesn’t “despair,” that is, she doesn’t allow the dissatisfaction stemming from the exalted demand to turn her against creative action as a whole, or give herself up to “weeping” (Hacks, 1978:179). Both stances— dissatisfaction as well as the renunciation of unseemly “wailing”—she shares with Goethe, the absent hero of “Conversation at Stein’s” (1974). He emerges as someone who has “recognized that he [cannot] make the structure of the world match his preconceptions,” yet is absolutely not “in agreement with the creator,” He merely learns to avoid weeping and wailing (“to keep quiet” [Hacks, 1976:399]). In this respect, at least, the play’s depiction of Goethe agrees with the one we encounter in the 1975 Tassow essay: Goethe is praised as a man who sets himself “reachable goals,” who is repelled by the “miserable German propensity to demand the impossible,” and by the resultant Wertherism (“weltschmerz-ifiying,” “self-pity” [Hacks, 1977:241]). This is one of the first indications of Hacks’ tendency to place polemics against nuts and fanatics, the so-called Romantics, in the mouth of Goethe. Among the fanatics is the collective hero of “The Birds” (1973), in which Hacks presents not only the inability to undertake incremental fulfillment of wishes, but criticizes the wishes themselves as immature foolishness, the product of “mental laziness” (Hacks, 1977:241). Another is the title-figure of Rosie Dreams. The most astonishing, promptly-occuring miracles provide justification for her fanaticism through nearly five acts, before it is curbed in the epilogue; this is a consequence of the fact that the world Hacks brings onto the stage is seen from the perspective of the “dreaming” heroine, who shares more than just a name with the pious medieval writer Roswitha von Gandersheim. Hacks rediscovers the perspective of Christian legend, which justifies the idealistic overleaping of immediate reality, in contemporary wishful thinking that leans in an “apostolic direction” (Hacks, 1977:400). Whereas Hacks treated the equally naive (but progressive) world-model of Aristophanes with delight and admiration in his 1962 play Peace, he imitates the miraculous world of the legends irreverently, with the distance of a parodist. A shift in accent shows itself in the 1977 play Seneca’s Death. In the foreground are crowded representations of repulsive circumstances that restrict the possibility of action. The question of whether to orient oneself to the goal of the thinkable or the doable inevitably loses meaning in relation to the question of what possibilities are open to the individual who resists the forces confining him. Hacks describes one of these possibilities with the term “uprightness” [“Haltung”]: Uprightness anticipates human self-determination within history, under circumstances, that is, that are always forced upon us. The upright person holds himself as an adult, while the rest of humanity is still being led by the nose. Any form of mature and responsible conduct is an anticipation—a form of hope. (Hacks, 1984:363f)

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From the beginning, the hero Seneca is prevented from acting in a future-oriented manner, in that he has no way to avoid the compulsory “suicide” ordered by the Roman emperor Nero. What remains to him is the possibility of dying according to his Stoic ideals, to retain freedom in the face of death, and to show greatness by accepting death and, for this reason, proceeding unperturbed with his daily routine. Nonetheless, the smooth adherence to this routine is shattered along with the resolution to die during a philosophical discussion with a circle of his closest friends. The planned routine—“Dictation,” “Nap,” and “Sex with Wife”—is ruined by disruptive and unannounced visitors, by the work of a laborer Seneca himself had hired, and by an unforseen argument with the wife. By evening, the clumsy prevaricating by Seneca (who wishes to commit suicide in front of his friends while bathing) and the petty reactions of his friends and wife combine to create ever-increasing complications and discord. Jealousy, wounded vanity, and arguments over money ruin the evening, the profound conversation never takes place, and Seneca dies asking the “highest question”: “How is it possible to live?” (Hacks, 1981:296). Indeed, Seneca manages to hide his dying from the others and to avoid “burdening” them with his death (Hacks, 1981:276). Yet his successful “maintaining of uprightness” in the face of death is so closely tied to the failure of the petty goals that Seneca is never stylized into a monumental figure. Through Seneca’s entanglement with trivialities, the conditions of reality that impede the realization of human greatness are kept in view. The complete lack of a mediating figure between the extremes of the thinkable and the doable is too obvious to be overlooked in the 1979 drama of ideas Pandora, an adaptation and continuation of Goethe’s play. The opposed brothers Prometheus and Epimetheus represent two extreme poles in the relation to the desirable. Both were once united with the now-vanished Pandora, the embodiment of perfect happiness. Nonetheless, Prometheus interprets the striving toward happiness that was awakened by Pandora—the objects of desire contained within her box—as a vengeful curse from the gods. He attempts to erase the memory of Pandora, and drives his band of men to ceaseless, backbreaking labor in the name of a higher goal. Believing men to be irremediably caught in the realm of necessity, and seeing in the expectation of happiness the cause merely of unhappiness, he orders a “ban on wishing” (Hacks, 1985b:173). Epimetheus behaves in the opposite manner, giving himself over to the remembrance of Pandora and waiting in idleness for her promised return. From the perspective of one devoting himself to love, beauty, and happiness, the labors of Prometheus appear destructive and hideous. Epimetheus’ reproaches point to the flip side of instrumental reason, initiating a critique of culture and civilization. The working people, blind to both artistic and natural beauty, turn beautiful landscapes into “barren waste” (Hacks, 1985b:205) and cause the rivers to die with their power plants. Epimetheus regards the products that the people produce as “garbage,” “degrading rubbish,” “trash,” “completely unrelated to any human need” (Hacks, 1985b:208). Hacks’ solution for these drastically presented problems of civilization is simple: further technological progress will cure the ills that technology has caused. It is ultimately in the flames of the power plant itself that Epimetheus will rediscover “the pattern” of human aspiration that Pandora’s box had contained. Industrial “riches,” “unlimited resources” produce “a noble loveliness, a dazzlingly rich simplicity” (Hacks, 1985b:233). Epimetheus realizes that his brother’s labors have made possible Pandora’s return, which is the return of happiness. Prometheus, for his

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part, realizes that he has erred in giving up his love for Pandora and dismissing the utopian dimension of action. The interesting point here is not Hacks’ unwavering belief in progress, but what he places before the insight about the need for a synthesis between the contrary positions of Prometheus and Epimetheus. Whereas Goethe ended his play with hopes of a solution through love between the children of the two opponents, Hacks indicates in his added second part (which takes place in the present) that this is a false conclusion. Prometheus’ son Phileros not only marries Epimetheus’ daughter Epimeleia, but also sets himself up as ruler over the people who, having had their desire for happiness awakened, revolted against Prometheus and freed themselves. But the rule of Phileros presents only an apparent solution. Just as he betrays his wife by sleeping with her sister, proving ultimately to be incapable of love, so he betrays the men who follow him. Using any means necessary to remain in power and “beloved” by his subjects, he irresponsibly placates the people’s desire for happiness with cheap consumer products. With his own father commenting, “how quickly unworthiness finds a place!” (Hacks, 1985b:201), Phileros (similarly to the queen in Fredegunde and Semiramis in Jonah) shows himself to be an accomplished demagogue and a cynical virtuoso at holding on to power. His secret is the avoidance of real action or decision making: “A statesman’s own action is his greatest enemy. He is most clever who is clever through indecision” (Hacks, 1985b:217). He is content to parrot the words of others, to placate them with slogans, and to maintain appearances, and he consciously renounces higher goals: “There is no need for greatness” (Hacks, 1985b:225). Since the daughters of Epimetheus are also unsuited as carriers of hope, it is rather a happy “accident” (Hacks, 1985b:229) that they are all three killed in an automobile mishap, an event that not even the fathers regret. A negative fact, the lack of future-oriented action mediating between the given and the desired, is thus made painfully clear in Pandora. No doubt this is seen as a contemporary problem, and nothing seems to indicate that the criticism applies only to Western capitalism; Phileros’ conduct is equally reminiscent of Eastern power-holders. The 1980 comedy The Bulrushes [Die Binsen] is set unambiguously in the contemporary GDR. Protagonist Justine Mencken, the director of a government foreign trade office (termed a “marketing board”), is faced with overwhelmingly disillusioning and discouraging situations. She distinguishes herself through her ability and readiness to act responsibly, through intelligence and through virtues like openness and honesty. The figures around her, though, her coworkers and superiors as well as her subordinate and lover Karl, reveal themselves as lazy, comfortable, obtuse, incompetent, and envious. Thus, as Tassow prophesied, we are in the reign of “mediocrity, and her spiteful sister hypocrisy” (Hacks, 1972:214). Justine’s activities end in failure because of intrigues rooted in ill will and ambition. Justine obviously has no illusions about the level of awareness enjoyed by the citizenry, her coworkers, or even her lover. She is ready to accept the mediocrity around her and to make the best of it. Yet her patience is exhausted when she is finally attacked even for her “talent,” which disturbs the indifference and mediocrity of the others; as retribution for this, she is to be demoted. She resigns and goes to live with her sister on a bleak heath. The sister lives there with an eccentric, “anti-social” professor, who lives a parasitic life as a “green”-tinged “drop-out” amid the chorus of “bulrushes” that lend the play its name. Hacks is caricaturing here ecology-inspired

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dissidents and, above all, in the figure of the professor, the easily recognizable dissident Robert Havemann, depicting them as disaffected, self-serving ignoramuses who ultimately show a “brown” tinge, i.e., fascistoid tendencies. When Justine turns out to be indispensible to the marketing board, her colleagues follow her to the heath to bring her back. Among them are her lover Karl and Aron Kisch, an Argentine businessman who is in love with her. In a series of equally comic and revealing episodes, the hopelessness and confusion of the situation become apparent, reflecting no better on the representatives of the “normal” society than on the seeming alternative of the “drop-outs.” Disappointed and repelled, Justine resolves not to “play along” anymore, yet she revises her position during an argument with Aron Kisch, who has proposed that they marry and emigrate to Argentina. Justine rejects a union with her only equal in the play because she disapproves of the world in which he lives and cannot follow him into his “golden bulrushes” (Hacks, 1985a:82).3 Further, she confesses loyalty to “her” country, acknowledging its real failures while pointing to its utopian potential, which constitutes a reason to stay: You really don’t know this country. It is a very special country, and don’t come to me with its failures. For every one you have discovered, I will show you four worse ones. But the failures are boring anyway. The bad qualities of this country are common to the whole world, but the superior qualities it could have are all its own. (Hacks, 1985a:83) What these superior qualities would be remains an open question. Justine is certainly aware that she will never enjoy them; she knows that she will have to content herself with a mediocre substitute. Yet by holding fast to utopia, she is able to move forward. She decides to return to the marketing board in Berlin, because “somebody, after all, has to do the work” (Hacks, 1985a:40). She turns away from unproductive resignation and remains “upright”: “Centuries can really on some occasions be disheartening. I will pay no attention to that, but join the ranks of those who make themselves useful” (Hacks, 1985a:91). The stance of Seneca differs from that of Justine only in a limited aspect: where Seneca withdraws into “uprightness” in a situation completely lacking any opportunity for action, Justine behaves, so to speak, hypothetically: she does not rule out the possibility that opportunities for action may arise in the future which could lend meaning to her current behavior. Hacks implies in the final speech by the Chorus that this country may possibly be past saving, that it may actually be “going to the dogs” [“in die Binsen geht”]. The public is warned: Yet you whom no one bars from entering the golden land, where the brown flower spreads and the pine-rich dune slopes,—when you shortly rise to applaud and shrewdly to weigh the extent of your joy: will you not then offend future hosts. She is lost. You are invited. (Hacks, 1985a:91) Precisely ten years ago, this was a prophetic vision of the end of the GDR, which could not be saved even by those who remained “upright”; of a citizenry that prefered to set out for the “golden” land next door; and of the “brown flower” which has since spread itself over Rostock, Hoyerswerda, Mölln, and elsewhere.

3 “In

die Binsen gehen” [literally, “to go into the bulrushes”) is colloquial for “be ruined,” “go down the drain,” etc. (Ed.)

PETER HACKS 59

Having explored the morass of everyday life in The Bulrushes (a comedy formally indebted to Aristophanes and Shakespeare), Hacks turns in the 1989 classical tragedy Jonah to the corresponding signs of collapse at the level of royalty. Nineveh, capital of the wealthy Assyrian Empire at the end of the Ninth Century B.C., is the setting for Hacks’ judgment of states which have lost all purpose except the preservation of power. Even here, there are carriers of hope and sympathy: the princess Asyrte and the general Eskar. Yet these lovers never even have a chance to work for positive goals. The Assyrian queen Semiramis is too clever at deceiving them, at misusing their faith and their loyalty to the state, at playing them off one another and destroying their love. She is similarly clever at dreaming up new intrigues and deceptive maneuvers to keep the hostile neighbor states Babel and Ararat embroiled with one another, though she emerges ultimately from these military struggles with little more than a Pyrrhic victory. The state survives “defiled” and disgraced, unfit to embody positive values ever again. The biblical figure Jonah, sent by God as observer and judge over Nineveh, puts it pointedly: Truly, the state is founded on two kinds of leadership, on state reason, which governs existing fact, and state artistry, which extends into the possible; but what pulls the ground from under the state is state smart-aleckiness: self-satisfied, smirking lies; tolerating anything and so hurting everything; doing this and doing that and none of it thoroughly; scrambling after the least profit and in the end losing everything: thus begins disgust and decline. (Hacks, 1989:87) As in Pandora with the example of Phileros, Hacks creates a negative example in power-hungry Semiramis to make the case for “state artistry, which extends into the possible,” that is, for a perspective that reaches beyond the given. What stops Jonah from carrying out the destruction of Nineveh is a superior historicalphilosophical insight: through the historical process, something positive may grow even out of a negative present. Despite his disgust at the spectacle of decline, this insight enables Jonah to maintain uprightness and refrain from making the “indecent gestures” that would have put the curse into effect: “Nineveh wishes to fall; am I Nineveh’s puppet that I should wish like Nineveh? Any gesture that would have fit Nineveh would be a most unfitting gesture” (Hacks, 1989:96). In this last-mentioned play, the author is reacting to the long, gradual decline of the GDR as a state and a society by refusing to put onstage positive characters who might through their actions bring about an improvement of circumstances. This refusal does not, however, bring a pessimistic view of history with it. In his essays, too, Hacks speaks of a confidence that will not be dimmed by the end of so-called “really existing socialism”: “There is no present so horrible that it lacks a future. Everything goes on, as certain reflections and experiences teach, and in the long run, things progress” (Hacks,1991:56). The “Principal of Hope”4 befits art in particular as an essential characteristic. Nor are the most recent plays by Hacks (all published in 1992) by any means marked by a mood of collapse or catastrophe. Besides the playlet The Courtesy of the Genius, there are two comedies with highly current references. Although Fafner the Muskrat

4

The phrase alludes to the work of Marxist philosopher Ernst Bloch, who greatly influenced GDR writers of Hacks’ generation, including Christa Wolf. (Ed.)

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treats in a very light manner the problem of West German property claims in the East, Hacks returns to his characteristic themes with another adaptation of Aristophanes. In The Money God, the original play (Wealth) is much more extensively altered than was the case in the adaptations of Peace or Birds. In Aristophanes’ play, the healing of Pluto (the god of wealth, whom Zeus had struck with the blindness) by the poor farmer Chremylos leads in fact to the desired end: a more just distribution of goods, benefitting those who, though virtuous and industrious, had until now been unjustly poor and unfortunate. In Hacks’ version, even the initial situation is changed: Chremylos, who is easily recognized as an “Ossi,” is indeed poor, but he leads a by no means unhappy life with his beloved Fifine. His goal of having “piles of money” proves to be a basically questionable utopia—not only the existing inequities but also the dialectic of work and pleasure are to be abolished. Hence the glowing promises that are supposed to move the people to assist in the healing of Pluto turn out to be, with their bloated wording, rather demagogic: “From this moment on…you will know neither care nor cold nor need. Filthy rich, that’s what you’ll be” (Hacks, 1992:26). The goal itself is not the only illusion: Chremylos must also discover that he has been fundamentally deceived by the money god. It emerges that Pluto—who can see now—deliberately blesses only the rich and the lazy, with the result that the situation of Chremylos and Fifine worsens markedly: sold into the hands of the capitalists for profit, they even lose each other. The dream of quick riches without work has robbed them of every joy and pleasure in life. The speech (significantly altered by Hacks) of Fortuna, the goddess of happiness, is to an extent true: poverty, not wealth, brings happiness, because only lack motivates work, which stands in a dialectical relation to pleasure: “He who is not driven by lack expends no effort in the world, and he who expends no effort in the world fails to enjoy it: for giving is pleasure, not taking” (Hacks, 1992:40). Happiness, which they do find in the end, is concealed in a Horn of Plenty left behind by the goddess of poverty. The audience never learns what it contains, but the drawings on its exterior are described as showing both “a fertile field with laborers” and “a festival of Bacchus” (Hacks, 1992:54). It is to be assumed that the dialectic of work and pleasure also holds for the interior of the horn. Happiness, then, would be regained by giving up misguided desires. Hacks responds to the recent changes in Germany by referring to dominant representations of desire that are immature or incompletely thought out. The stance is a rejection of a questionable utopia, balanced with his critique of voluntarist disregard of the doable, and its opposite pole, the refusual to orient oneself to anything beyond the given. These are the points of attack, sharing as their common premise the conviction that “future-oriented action” is possible. Translated by David W. Robinson. References Hacks, Peter (1972) Ausgewählte Dramen 1. Berlin & Weimar: Aufbau ——(1965) Stücke nach Stücken. Bearbeitungen 2. Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp ——(1976) Ausgewählte Dramen 2. Berlin & Weimar: Aufbau ——(1977) Die Maßgaben der Kunst. Düsseldorf: ——(1978) Sechs Dramen. Düsseldorf: Claassen

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——(1981) Ausgewählte Dramen 3. Berlin & Weimar: Aufbau ——(1984) Essais. Leipzig: ——(1985a) Die Binsen. Fredegunde. Zwei Dramen. Berlin & Weimar ——(1985b) Stücke nach Stücken 2. Berlin & Weimar: Aufbau ——(1989) Jona. Trauerspiel in fünf Akten. Berlin & Weimar: Aufbau ——(1991) Die Schwärze der Welt im Eingang des Tunnels. Konkret, No. 1, 56–63 ——(1992) Der Geldgott. Komödie in drei Akten nach Aristophanes. Neue deutsche Literatur, 40, No. 1, 14–61 Höpcke, Klaus (1965) Dramatik und Gesellschaft. Neues Deutschland, 18 February

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“Not Peasant Stew! Real Theater for the People!”—Walfriede Schmitt Talks about East German Theater N. Ann Rider

In this narrative imitative of the East German “Protokoll,” the actress Walfriede Schmitt describes East German theater from the 1960s to the present through personal experiences. She describes the theoretical and methodological direction of the actors’ training as well as the life of actors at small town provincial theaters and in Berlin, the East German theater capital. Historical events, such as the Prague Spring and the events of 1989, are more than a backdrop: they provided the impetus behind many failed and fulfilled theater productions. History-making productions as well as the issues actors face today in unified Germany are portrayed. KEY WORDS: East German Theater, Volksbühne, Brecht, Stanislavski, Besson Walfriede Schmitt is a well-known and respected actress at the East Berlin Volksbühne. She has played a wide variety of challenging roles in film and on the stage, including Schmulka in Heiner Müller’s The Peasants and recently Claire Lannes in Marguerite Duras’ The English Lover. Schmitt has also served as chairperson of the East German Artists’ Union. Over 120 pages of interviews with Walfriede Schmitt have been edited into the following narrative, which describes East German theater from the 1960s to the present.1 The editing process was based on the East German tradition of the “Protokoll,” which gave voice to people and issues given no voice in the public realm of the GDR. In the “Protokoll,” interview questions and the voice of the interviewer are omitted. What is left strives to present the voice of the speaker. Historically, the genre was legitimized in the GDR as an expression of the experience of the people, a form of Socialist Realism. Writers quickly seized on its subversive potential: namely,

1

At its very foundation this project has been a collaborative one. The first interviews with Schmitt were conducted by Gisela Bahr and Helen Fehervary in October 1992. I completed the interviews in August 1993. My thanks to Gisela, Helen and especially Walfriede Schmitt for making this project possible.

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inherent in the oral descriptions of daily life was resistance to the narrative of Socialist Realism and East German socialism itself, narratives which over-simplified or even contra dicted socialist reality.2 Thus, the “Protokoll” often facilitated the articulation of suppressed experiences in the GDR and, as such, is fitting for the expression of East German experience in unified Germany. The “Protokoll” is a constructed narrative, that is, behind its apparent authentic voice is still the intervention of the editing process.3 Therefore, the narrative itself is as much a creation of the editor as it is the voice of the speaker. As an editor, my intentions were to show the ways in which East German theater was unique: the historical situation; the emphasis on the collective (the ensemble structure), which allowed a whole range of acting talents to mature; the importance of the Brechtian tradition; and the tradition and aims of the Volksbühne itself as a theater “for the people.” Also evident in this narrative are the ways in which the dynamics between the power structures in the GDR and resistance to them created the possibility for a theater of unquestionable social relevence.4 I was born in 1943, graduated, and at the age of twenty went to theater school [Ernst Busch Theater School, Berlin]. My father was a dramatist; my mother was an actress at the time at a children’s theater. The reason I wanted to be an actress: I wanted to really act, I wanted to transform myself, right from the start. There was nothing ideological behind it (that came later). I once said, a normal person has one life, and somehow that wasn’t enough for me; I wanted to have at least nine, like a cat. So I went to theater school. You didn’t have to pay for training in the GDR, but the state reserved the right to decide how many, under what circumstances and where people were admitted, with the proviso that they had a job afterward. Everyone who went to these schools had a position afterward for at least two years. There were two tests, a so-called aptitude test and an admissions test. I only took the admissions test because I was late. Otherwise, I would have had to wait a year. And since I was already twenty—for a young woman in the theater that’s ancient—and heavy, too! Well, eyebrows were already raised because it was really just not done. But somehow I had this moment during the test that convinced most of the professors. I did Piperkarcka from The Rats

2

The genre has proved most popular in the GDR among women writers. It dovetails with the long history of expressing women’s experience through diaries and letters. See Sarah Kirsch, Die Pantherfrau, 1973; Maxie Wander, Guten Morgen, du Schöne!, 1977. Other examples of the genre in the GDR are: Irina Liebmann, Berliner Mietshaus, 1982; Gabriele Eckart, So sehe ick die Sache. Protokolle aus der DDR, 1984 (published in the West after some parts appeared in the GDR and controversy caused permission for publication to be withdrawn); Christine Lambrecht, Männerbekanntschaften. Freimütige Protokolle, 1986. 3 For an analysis of the constructed nature of GDR “Protokolle,” see: Holzschuh, 1992. 4 According to Michel Foucault, “…resistance is never in a position of exteriority in relation to power” (1980a: 95). Foucault also challenged us to examine the ways in which power functions not just negatively, but also positively. “It [power] needs to be considered as a productive network that runs through the whole social body, much more than as a negative instance whose function is repression” (1980b:119).

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[Hauptmann] for the admissions test. And Juliet from Shakespeare. And I did Marriage Proposal from Chekhov and sang a song. But I think I made it with Juliet. Because of the tragedy. During the break when I cried, “Hold, Tybalt, hold!” I heard someone below say, “Well, now!” I was so happy that for days I couldn’t stop talking. Then school started with the harvest in the potato fields; it was Autumn after all. As a student in the GDR you first had to harvest potatoes. Yes, that’s how it was. And then school went like this: we had movement courses, dance and normal movement instruction, fencing and acrobatics. And we had music, speech and acting, of course, and then languages. We also had philosophy, Marxism-Leninism, or ML as we called it. And we had theater courses. There were regular professors teaching at this school as well as theater professors. And to some extent there were Berlin actors and directors there, too. I suppose it was methodologically rather traditional. For example, we had methods classes with a professor who had written a lot of books on Stanislavski. We worked a lot externally, premised on the idea of creating distance from the character. If I think about what made ours different from Western theater schools, it would be that we learned a social presence. We learned to incorporate the political situation into our portrayal of a character. Not just the psychological state, but also the social environment of the character. Not just a tumult of feelings. I was really affected by this because I am a very emotional type of person. It took me a while before I could keep all the aesthetic directions apart and then bring them back together again. I can’t separate myself from myself, I can’t separate myself from my feelings. But to sort through it all and control it, that I learned much later. So, for theory we had Stanislavski and then, naturally, Brecht. And, of course, we read a lot of Stanislavski, including his ethics, which I find immensely important, as well as Brecht’s Short Organon for the Theater. And then we did all those exercises. I think that just as Stanislavski collected things and wrote them down for other actors, Brecht did, too, but he took a lot more from China. But, for example, those stories about standing in front of the mirror like Stanislavski, that kind of thing I always rejected. I didn’t necessarily experience working with the methods of Brecht and Stanislavski as a contradiction. I don’t care what method someone like Laurence Olivier used. When someone does really wonderful theater, they show certain things; they portray them; they distance themselves from themselves. And, in principle, no one discussed which method to rehearse with. There was some methodological progress through, for example, Heiner Müller and some of the young people who came into the theater. There were directors who worked with improvisation, which was an entirely new thing for a country full of rules and laws and troublesome restrictions. The spontaneity and fantasy of improvisation functioned as an attempt to break down stagnation, even political stagnation. I think Frank Castorf (who has now taken over the Volksbühne) works through a theme very intensely with intellect and with improvisation. Heiner Müller carried on with Brechtian method and strict directorial control at the Volksbühne back then, which Benno Besson as well as Fritz Marquardt as well as Karge/ Langhoff [Manfred Karge and Matthias Langhoff] continued, to varying degrees. That’s where I really experienced directorial theater in all its rigor, as coercion, but also as a great challenge—the tone, please, like this; the tempo, please, like this— where the play was built like a model and you were supposed to fit into it. I woke up

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nights and thought: my God, how? But that was also my most important learning experience. I’ve tried a lot of things, and I adapt well to many different methods. I don’t want to limit myself. I would like to be able to do children’s theater, and I would like to have the opportunity, please, to continue to work on difficult texts, on how to approach them, as Heiner says, so that the idea comes across the stage crystal clear. I want both. Even in theater school they attempted to let everyone try out different methods for themselves, but that didn’t always work. We had a half year of method, improvisational things. Then we did the first scene analyses, and that always went like this: we took approximately two pages of text and worked four to five weeks on them. There were auditions, which were like tests, at the conclusion of study and then several groups came together at one time. The auditions were all on one day, then they were judged by the professors and then the students got their evaluations. I auditioned at the time for the Volksbühne, my Minne von Barnhelm, which was very good. But there was a different board of directors then and they didn’t offer me a position. Now I’m glad that it turned out that way. I went to Parchim with a whole group of students and did regional theater. Parchim is near Schwerin, a so-called traveling theater. A really small theater that’s always on the road. So, we traveled through the countryside by bus and did theater. I played the witch and a lady-inwaiting in Macbeth, that was my first role, and then a part in a Russian play. At the end of the season I did Minne von Barnhelm [Lessing] and then Luise from Intrigue and Love [Schiller] for the first time (I’ve played her three times in all). Then I did Eliza Doolittle, the Shaw-version [Pygmalion]. That’s the first time I can point to where a theater role really affected me. Eliza—she really taught me something. Eliza has courage, has energy, doesn’t give in and doesn’t give up. The way she barges in on that professor with her natural wit, with her punctiliousness, with her need for respect: that’s how she helped me. And this long closing monologue where she tells him that she could just as well buy such a stupid machine herself, and that she’s leaving: all or nothing. I’ve always found exciting female figures who have standards, who make demands, and I’ve loved to play them. Luise and Minne have that, too. I value such things tremendously. And I must say, this occupation—theater—has also been character building for me personally. In Parchim I acted quite a bit: in the bus, out of the bus, in front of people, in the country, around the country—traveling. If I’d stayed in Berlin I would never have played all those roles. Maybe supporting roles. And even though it was always a battle for quality. Back then we had to fight and protest the conditions in that theater because we found them degrading. We went all the way to the central government because we were acting in old inns. And us with our enthusiasm and élan, we thought, this just can’t be. There’s got to be some money put into this, a regular theater has to be built, conditions have to be created so that people in the villages can see a normal production. And not hear the toilet flushing next door, or beer being sold in the back, or have a cow gawking through the window. That all happened! That was the first lost battle so to speak, because we thought, there can’t be any culture under these conditions: better no Shakespeare than like this. After Parchim I went to Halle to Horst Schönemann and Christoph Schroth. In Halle my first role was Amalie in Schiller’s The Robbers (directed by Schönemann). Then I was supposed to play Garcia Lorca’s Yerma (directed by Schroth).

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Figure 1 As Claire Lannes in The English Lover, 1993

During the rehearsals the invasion of Czechoslovakia took place. That was a political moment of incredible importance, a moment in which a lot began. We were supposed to welcome the entry of troops into Czechoslovakia. I didn’t think it was good at all. I mean, my entire being resisted thinking it was good. I liked Dubček. I liked what was going on there. It made sense to me. But I was a member of the Party. When the Party local had a meeting, even there no one could convince me with strategic issues or I don’t know what. I found it all disgusting. That was the moment that has stuck with me since then: I was afraid. I know it was fear of confrontation, that they wouldn’t let you off the hook because then they would “discuss” it with you all night long. So I welcomed the entry of the troops, too. And I felt so ashamed that I was sick from it. And I swore I would never again say “yes” when I meant “no”. Yerma couldn’t be performed in this context! Yerma, this woman who longs desperately for a child and in the end kills her husband because he can’t make her pregnant, because he demands that his needs be fulfilled but denies hers; this woman who has no possiblity of self-fulfillment, who lashes out violently against her

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oppression. The Party chief in Halle said it was a play that would only provoke tension and be a stumbling block when building blocks were needed. And then when we asked whether it was the anti-fascist Lorca who shouldn’t be performed on East German stages, the party officials said, “No, Lorca’s fine. But not with this director.” So we actors said, “Well, then let Schönemann finish the Lorca play.” Schönemann had taken over the theater in Halle back then. For a certain time he had done relatively avant-garde, critical contemporary theater. But that was supposed to be interrupted for fear that Prague might be contagious. So when they said Yerma couldn’t be performed, we said, “No! This has to do with Lorca!” And we insisted that we be allowed to do the play. That was the first time I went through this process where they “debate” with you all night long (this went on for four weeks!) until you’re half stupid; and where I saw how people changed their minds from one minute to the next; and where my so-called political independence began, with Yerma. That was my first attempt at civic courage, at saying “no” and not letting them manipulate you. The play was cancelled. And I had a child. Yes, Yerma had a child. You were allowed to have children in the theater here. No problem. That women have children was obvious. You got six weeks of leave according to the law back then (that’s all in the past, of course). I think around the fourth or fifth month I couldn’t play my parts any more. Then I was reassigned. And so I had my child. I didn’t do much more in Halle; a few smaller parts. I was supposed to play Gretchen for Schönemann in Goethe’s Faust. But since I wanted to do theater with the father of my child, I went with him to Meiningen. In Meiningen I did Intrigue and Love, Schiller’s Don Carlos (I played Elisabeth), and I played Shen Te in Brecht’s The Good Person of Szechwan. Those were the three in Meiningen. Then I heard that they were looking for a Luise at the Deutsches Theater (Berlin). And since someone from the Deutsches Theater had seen me in Meiningen as Luise and as Shen Te, I got the role. At first I was totally cramped because of my own stupid, sentimental lack of selfconfidence: I had a lot to deal with. Käthe Reichel was at rehearsals and one day she said to me: “Young lady, come here! Young lady, we’re going to get to work. You’re talented, I can see that, and I understand why they brought you here. But right now the play is called Ferdinand, and we need to develop a Luise for it.” And then she rehearsed with me day and night. Reichel taught me how to think on stage. And, in doing that, she made me much more relaxed on stage. She taught me to take a step back from myself, to think the thoughts of the character. That was a woman from the Brecht school. She knew how to bring thinking and what we were talking about earlier—Stanislavski and over-emotionalism—to bring it all together. That was a powerful experience for me. Then I became interested in the theater of Benno Besson and went to the Volksbühne. That was 1973. I’m the kind of person who really loves to laugh and who wants to do theater for the people on the street—that’s what I’ve always wanted. I saw that in Besson’s productions of Peter Hacks’ The Peace and Evgenii Shvarts’ The Dragon: the sensuality, the laughter, the wit. That was hardly there any longer at the Berliner Ensemble. Brecht, of course, wasn’t at the Berliner Ensemble any more, [Manfred] Wekwerth was there. Helene Weigel chose him and in my opinion it was boring. I can say that today rather insolently since—well, I couldn’t care less. I think

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it was and is totally boring, and it is certainly not Brecht. With Benno it was something new. The first time I fell into the hands of a director was with Besson. I was thrown out of the baby carriage, so to speak, and got theory up to my eyeballs. The high expectations, the musicality of this man! Besson filled Brecht plays with sensuality and emotion. He once said: “Brecht? Some people just use the recipe for the meal.” Brecht always contradicted himself, and it always infuriated Besson when people tried to establish rules concerning Brecht. Because he said, “Yes, Brecht said that— then, in a certain historical context. Today is today and yesterday was yesterday. And we do theater for today, not yesterday.” What was exciting for me about Besson’s theater was that, for the first time, he tried to get away fundamentally from the bourgeois cliché of theater as a business and to really make this a theater for the people on the street. So that it was fun. If it’s only intelligent and it’s only great, people won’t go. They want to laugh. They want to experience something sensual in the theater. And he also tried to open up the theater. He wanted people to see the theater as their property, as an actual part of their lives. There were different attempts at creating such a thing: public rehearsals, developing plays with worker collectives in the factories, going into the factories and doing theater there, big extravaganzas, real festivals, wearing make-up in public, discussions with audiences and many other things. In principle Besson brought together two traditions for me: the Brecht tradition and commedia dell’arte. But there was resistance within the ensemble because of the way Besson…well, he was prodding people out of their coziness, their lethargy. Added to that was Marquardt with these very political plays. Besson, Marquardt, Karge/ Langhoff, they all attempted both in content and in form to create a theater for a “worker and peasant state,” to break from bourgeois strictures. And for ten years they took this quite seriously. That was a period in which the theaters were completely full every night. But it was a significant impulse that unfortunately was never bought to its conclusion. I think too that the political situation at the end of the seventies had hardened. Besson described it once: you just can’t always be fighting against resistance. The ensemble structure oppressed him, too. Basically, he wanted to get out of the theater at the time—out of the Volksbühne—along with a group of actors and do theater in Jena. But the magistrate wouldn’t allow it. So he said, I don’t want to do theater with all of these people. I want to do my own thing. He didn’t want to work with certain people in the theater. And that naturally led to legal proceedings within the theater that became rather ugly. I should say that we had permanent contracts, like tenure. That meant that an actor could not be terminated after a given period of time. To fire someone it was necessary to prove incompetence, that a person wasn’t able to do their job well enough. So, actors had to be put to work. Benno did that rather well. He really tried to work with everyone. But his complaint that he didn’t want to work with certain people was accepted by neither the people involved nor the labor courts. Permanent contracts were supposed to keep actors from being dependent on the goodwill or lack of goodwill of the director. They were supposed to free actors from subservience and give them social security and respect. But that is rather complicated. To do the one thing and not allow the other, and in a profession where an artist simply has to be allowed to work with those people with whom he works best…. It was clear that somewhere

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along the line this complete security had a stagnating effect, but not on everyone. I mean, if you really want to do theater, you want to be good at it. But if you aren’t on the same wavelength, then you can’t work together. Two things were important to me: it’s true that Besson left because of the actors, but that’s only one part; he also left because of GDR cultural politics, because of the constant chicanery, and because he had to get permission for everything. Somewhere along the line, it was enough. And since I’m on the subject, I should bring this up because I was infuriated when the events of 1989, the Wende, began. In the GDR provinces actors moved from one city to another despite permanent contracts. But in Berlin, things were different. There was more access to television in Berlin. There was film in Berlin. There was radio in Berlin. Berlin was a city where you could go to a nice café and drink coffee and where it was just nicer than in other cities. And you could earn more there as well. So people from larger cities like Rostock or Dresden didn’t leave so easily. That didn’t just have to do with their permanent contracts, but rather that they said to themselves, “Where else would I live?” It had to do with the infrastructure of the country. In the end, quite talented people from the provinces weren’t able to come to Berlin, because all the jobs were filled. But after 1989 the gentlemen who were responsible in the Ministry of Culture were the first to want to introduce limited contracts, like they had in the West. They wanted to be able to say, “The stagnation must end! Limited contracts for actors!” As if the clowns were the actors, as if the actors were the ones who were guilty! But which theater directors did the Ministry appoint, which plays did they allow and which didn’t they allow? How were they responsible? They simply wanted to wash their hands of the whole thing using the shirts on our backs. Besson left around 1978. Somewhere along the line the initial impulses among the four [Besson, Marquardt, Karge and Langhoff] had been exhausted at any rate. Besson left, Karge/Langhoff wanted to continue, and we wanted to do political theater more intensively. At this time Heiner Müller reinforced my own political thinking that had been shaped during the Prague period. For example, we had done Müller’s The Peasants in 1976. The doubts about this play were particularly strong. At that time there had been a strong sense of searching for a style within the ensemble. We observed and watched each other. How do you approach such texts, such themes, themes of everyday life, and yet at such an artistic level? Marquardt was the director, and he had a lot of opposition to overcome, even within the ensemble. It was all new territory. We couldn’t rely on proven methods. Of course, it’s no different in the theater than anywhere else. Always trying something new, always pushing yourself to the limits. It hurts. And it was tough for Besson and for the directors and for every actor and every person in the theater. Because—well, how did we know it was to be a theater production that would make history? We had no idea then. And, of course, I really wanted to do those lines, “When communism gets here, I’ll go dancing.” I really wanted to play that out. I had no idea how to do it, how to get such a passage in a gesture and still capture all of the contradictions. I worked on this one half-page of text, I climbed the walls at night, terrified, because I thought, how can this possibly be done? The character I played, Schmulka, that was one of the few roles I built completely from the exterior. Schmulka lives by her bust and her ass. That’s the kind of costume we created for her, that odd fifties style. I created her from the outside, all the way to her walk. Everything showed who Schmulka was. I also made her funny, with

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pretensions. Horst Heimer at the Deutsches Theater once said, what he valued about me was my ability to portray characters critically without damaging them. When I’m successful enough to get the critique into the character, it’s usually because of humor. That way, the characters aren’t dealt with coldly, rather through humor you maintain closeness to the character, Schmulka doesn’t stand only for herself, but for a whole group of people who developed in such-and-such a way, grew up in such-and-such a milieu. In a small town. A bit dumb, always working, working, working. Got a desire, but no possibility of fulfilling it in the way they live. The possibilities open to them are limited. The difficulty of roles like this is that you can’t individualize them too strongly. Otherwise, the appeal of the intelligent contradictions between political perspectives that Müller always has gets lost. And that’s where his need to say that you have to keep yourself out of the text comes from. There is a really strong social aspect to Heiner’s characters that you simply have to hit, in speech and in physical gestures. I guess, it is a bit of stylization, but not flat, not cabaret, rather, with access to the history of the character and the historical context in which the character moves and acts. Of course, this is no longer the case for Heiner’s later plays. Anyway, then this attempt to find other structures was broken off because the unrest within the theater was too disturbing. Actually, it was the point at which one should go. We three women [Schmitt, Ursula Karusseit and Heide Kipp] stayed there. I can still see us sitting on a bench in front of the Volksbühne saying, “We really ought to go, but where?” The men went to the Deutsches Theater. But the Deutsches Theater is already full of wonderful women. They didn’t need us. That was normal, really, because there were already too many actresses and not enough actors, not enough plays and not enough roles for women. Women at the other theaters were just happy when they got a role. I think that, with all our differences, the Berlin actresses for the most part thought highly of one another. I find it really impressive, this phalanx of women. When I think, for example, of the women at the Maxim-Gorki-Theater! And even at our theater, there was really a collegial atmosphere. We helped each other. That’s what ensemble work is all about. And I think it’s a tremendous loss that ensemble work is being destroyed now the way it is. It reached a crisis, okay, but why? No one stopped to analyze it; they just made judgments. But new solutions are never found that way. And now, without much ado, they’ve saddled us with the West German system, and now we have to join in the crises of the West German theater. But we were already beyond that point. The eighties, up until the Wende, were a normal period. Sometimes good, sometimes bad, but without the momentum of the earlier period. I tried to go my own way during this period. I tried to perfect my craft in smaller personal projects, to find my own reasons for doing theater, without the father figures. It was partly an attempt at freeing myself from having decisions made for me, and it didn’t always work out well. But I overcame my own fears, fears of standing alone, alone on stage. And I’ve freed myself to the point that now I slowly have the feeling all sorts of experiences in my life are flowing together into one stream. That I’m not done with what I can do. That I’ll go on, and that I have a certain sovereignty now. The period of the Wende helped a lot. The theater school had asked me several times during the eighties if I would like to work with the students on preparing scenes. Gabi Heinz at the Deutsches Theater, a colleague whom I value highly, had been working with the students quite a bit. She

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had a method: don’t load on from the top, but pull from within. Discover the kernel of a person, see where his uniqueness lies and develop it, bring it out and let it blossom. Not the old principle of destroying something first and then rebuilding it. Gabi doesn’t do that. So we decided to do something together. We were looking for a play with two women and found a play by Jörg-Michael Koerbl, The One and the Other. A very strange play. There is blood, trauma, cursing, confrontation and a lot of philosophy in the play, It takes place in a cell with two women. One is bloody, beaten up, broken: she’s political, a terrorist. This other woman comes in and says, “I’m not supposed to be here”: she’s a housewife. At first we thought: the housewife, a woman who’s political, okay, the obvious images. But that changed. We got rid of the cell and played it out in the emotional realm. For every situation we looked for concrete images that explored how extreme positions get on with one another. Can they complement one another? Stimulate one another? Or is conflict the only possibility? These are the kinds of problems we contemplated: women in the world, politics, patriarchal principles. How did this happen in our own country? I must say, this play carried us through the Wende. The scene analyses took place in the Fall of 1987. In 1988 we began production of the entire piece at the Volksbühne. We had the premiere after the Wende, October 20th. I can’t tell you how many moments in the play foreshadowed the actual events; for example, October 6th when the borders were closed again and no one was able to go across. And how many of our own thoughts about the play corresponded with this period of time. And I think, too, that the intensity of our experiences during the Wende had a lot to do with our work. Basically, a caesura was running through the world at the same moment we were working on the play. It was crazy. We were always wavering between “Close the theater! Close the theater!” and “Open the theater! Open the theater!” Questioning whether there was even anything more to be said in the theater. But we felt we really had something to say. And I think this was a process that, through its intensity and openness, simply brought us all further. And I only want to work that way: so intensively, so openly, so honestly. What I’m afraid of now: theater in the declining GDR tried more and more strongly to intervene in social processes. Of course, there was ideological pressure from above. But we learned to deal with it and to expand the boundaries of the available breathing room that was there. Theater in the GDR was a totally demanding attempt at critical analysis, of oneself and of social conditions. And since we didn’t have to worry about money, it was also a very intensive attempt. And since the country was so small and everyone was always at home, it took hold. For that reason, theater really took on a social dimension: it was important. Now you have the pressure of money, you have to run for your life. And your energy evaporates everywhere into thin air. I’m just happy that I’m with Castorf at the Volksbühne where there’s still the possibility of tapping into one’s own experience. But earlier there was an attempt to depict the human being within his concrete social environment. And how he affects his environment. Now at the Volksbühne the tendency is much greater to depict the effect of history, the political situation I mean, on the human being: the beginning of the chaos of the Apocalypse. It is a very aggressive, desperate theater, although in a big way, mind you. These past four years since the Wende have been like twenty. I’ve freed myself from old ways of thinking and from many conceptions about myself. I would love to do theater for what they call “the people,” Not for pocket-watch carrying, gold

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toothed, fancy caned, paying customers. I don’t like the star system. And what’s coming next: trying to get ahead, climbing over others, everyone trying to get their place at the front of the stage. I don’t mean to insult the actors in the West, some of whom I find really good. But I’m looking for something else, something somewhere between Dario Fo, myself and all of the really intelligent people whom I like so much: from Heiner Müller to Christa Wolf, to Marguerite Duras, Inge Müller, Helga Schubert and who knows who else. Something along the line of what I liked so much with Besson. Not peasant stew, but real theater for the people: with energy, with sensuality, with comedy and still intelligent—that’s what I’m looking for. And hope keeps courage alive! (Translated by N. Ann Rider) References Foucault, Michel (1980a) The History of Sexuality. Vol. 1: An Introduction. New York: Vintage (1980b) Power/Knowledge. Edited by Colin Gordon. New York: Pantheon Holzschuh, A. (1992) Protokollsammlungen der DDR. German Studies Review, 15 (2), 267–287

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Christoph Hein: “Engagement” in the German Democratic Republic Anthony Meech

This study investigates the major plays written by Hein in the last decade of the GDR and places them in the context of the public persona of Hein as an “engaged” writer and his relationship with the state authorities. It identifies the central themes of enclosure and entrapment in the plays and Hein’s escape strategy via humanity and wry humor. KEY WORDS: engagement, Hein, revolution, humor, history It would be futile to try to assess the achievement and contribution of a writer like Christoph Hein to the theater of the GDR without an understanding of that country’s theatrical establishment and its functioning, in particular during the period from the mid-seventies to 1989. It is also essential that Western observers free their minds of the naïve formulations of many of their politicians of the evils of the communist system in the GDR. While there were many abuses of power during the forty years of the GDR, there were many benefits for the population, and in particular for the arts. It was perhaps the theater (in all its manifestations) which of all the arts stood to gain most from the system. Against this it was the theater which stood at the forefront of the criticism of the system in the GDR, with writers, companies and artistic directors exploiting the growing immunity from attack which the public nature of their art bestowed on them, frequently confronting the government and demanding the right to open debate (as at the Monday evening discussions at the Berliner Ensemble). The benefits for the theater of the government’s policy were considerable. Its guarantee of full employment allowed labor-intensive practices in the theater unimaginable outside the GDR. This, along with the freeing of theaters from the constraints normally imposed by the imperative of maximizing box-office receipts, encouraged extended rehearsal periods, the use of large casts and elaborate settings, and extreme longevity in productions. The positive results could include a unique integrity and ensemble feel to performances. On the negative side, productions even at the most renowned theaters all too frequently exhibited an institutional stale dullness stemming from the performers’ lack of any incentive to quality.

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The impossibility of complete censorship in theatrical performance, resulting from the unpredictable nature of the interaction of audience and stage presentation, set up an increasingly interesting tension in the GDR. The expectation of an audience that the stage would serve as a forum in which serious moral and political issues could be confronted and discussed (deriving from the writings of Schiller in the eighteenth century) was common to both parts of Germany, and was something that the GDR authorities could not control except by the almost unthinkable expedient of closing of the theaters. This expectation and the frequently oblique and coded way in which it was realized in the East encouraged a particular acuity in audiences, above all for performances of the classics, which sometimes produced responses which were incomprehensible to a non-GDR citizen. The audience reaction at the Deutsches Theater to William Tell’s seeking a “Pass,” which in the play refers to a pass through the mountains but which came to be interpreted by East German audiences as a passport, is only one example. In the forty years of the GDR, writers adopted a number of tactics to criticize the system or government without direct confrontation. The adaptations of a classic allowed for comment which the author retained from the original (such as the threat from the East referred to in Volker Braun’s version of Schiller’s Demetrius: Dmitri). Other writers followed Peter Hacks in his Adam and Eve and reworked myths. In his plays of social concern, Christoph Hein emulates Brecht in establishing a perspective on the contemporary situation by distancing his plays either in time or setting, or both, and above all by the inclusion of comedy in his writing, in the certain knowledge that his audience will interpret his texts correctly, knowing that “History plays are plays of the present. The present is always the subject” (Hein, 1986:177). Hein was born in 1944 in Silesia and went to secondary school in Berlin. He studied philosophy and logic in Berlin and Leipzig. After a number of different jobs, he acted as assistant to the director Benno Besson at the Deutsches Theater and subsequently was a dramaturge at the Volksbühne in Berlin before becoming a freelance writer. He has been the recipient of a number of literary awards, including the GDR’s Heinrich Mann Prize for both his prose and dramatic writing in 1982. He writes slowly and rejects and rewrites much, maintaining that he works on a project until he is dissatisfied with it, puts it aside, and only takes it up again when he is sure there is nothing better. Hein was one of a number of playwrights to benefit directly from the liberalization of censorship in the GDR in the early seventies, when the Ministry of Culture devolved a responsibility of self-censorship onto the Intendanten (artistic directors) of individual theaters. This bred a nervousness in these Intendanten towards the writing of unfamiliar dramatists. The formula used in the planning of theater programs resulted in a relatively small window for new writers. If a third of a theater’s program was devoted to foreign plays, a third to German classics, and a third to contemporary German writing, most Intendanten would be likely to favor a new play by Braun or Hein over a first play by a new writer. The system of dissemination of new play texts by Henschelverlag meant that writers who were not members of the Writers’ Union did not get published, and without publication, plays were not performed. Whereas before the liberalization of the early seventies a theater might fight along with its Intendant to stage a “difficult” new play or author, there was a tendency in the late seventies and eighties for theaters to restrict their new plays to those from established authors. Hein (one such established author) was, however, prepared to engage in a

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lively debate with those younger authors who felt disadvantaged and to defend the situation in a fringe meeting at the 1988 GDR Theater Workshop in Leipzig, while being instrumental in establishing new outlets for the writing of unperformed playwrights. It is essential to recognize that Hein, while critical of the regime, is not seeking in his writing the simple overthrow of the SED government. Nor is he in favor of the imposition of a West German system in the East. His social commentary is less specific than Uwe Saeger’s highlighting of the abuses current in GDR factories in Free of all Guilt or Georg Seidel’s picture of GDR housing conditions in Carmen Kittel. Where Volker Braun in Tinka and Schmitten and Heiner Müller in Volokolamsk Highway I-V confront and comment on the system head-on, Hein prefers to comment indirectly, distancing his plays either historically (Lassalle Asks Herr Herbert about Sonja. The Setting a Salon) or geographically (The True Story of Ah Ku) or both (Cromwell and The Knights of the Round Table). Hein was able to travel in the West, but returned echoing Brecht’s famous analogy of his exile in America where he had been invited into the dining room, as opposed to the GDR where he had been invited into the kitchen. Hein was among that group of writers whose work, while recognizing the shortcomings of the system in the East, sought constructively to reform existing structures to realize the system’s potential for the establishment of a fairer society. Hein speaks frequently of his commitment to “engagement,” which for him has two different but linked definitions. First, he means by it the rejection by the writer of the “ivory tower” mentality and his or her willing espousal of causes of concern to fellow writers. He felt a responsibility regularly to attend the GDR Writers’ Congresses, and in his address to the Tenth Congress he articulated a damning attack on state censorship of the arts, which identified him as one of the leaders of the GDR authors’ struggle for freedom of expression. Second, “engagement” implies for Hein the responsibility he believes a writer, in common with every other citizen, should feel for the political development of his or her state. For him, as a public figure, this means a visible involvement in the struggle to improve society, and it was this stance which led him into extra-theatrical political activity at the time of the Wende. He was in great demand as a speaker despite, or more accurately, because of his not espousing the program of any existing political party. The disappointment he expressed to me in 1990 at the GDR’s wholesale and naïve acceptance of Chancellor Kohl’s blandishments testifies both to his intensely felt commitment to the middle way forward he had envisaged for the country and perhaps to his own political naïveté. Before a consideration of his three most significant pre-Wende plays, brief mention must be made of two earlier texts, formal experiments, for the light they shed on Hein’s developing technique as a dramatic writer. These are Cromwell and Lassalle asks Herr Herbert about Sonja. The Setting a Salon, both originally produced in 1980. In Cromwell Hein presents a picture of the English revolutionary leader both as a general and egalitarian, and as a traitor to the revolution and a cold-blooded murderer. He introduces a number of “epic” elements, including in the character of Spidernach an attempt to present the proto-capitalist analysis of the action, and comic commentary from the clown-like Ladybird. Hein intended in the play to mimic Shakespearian structure and in his notes to the play claims that the play works through

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Breaks, anachronisms. A splintering of the material which precludes the description: history…. This radical attack on the material allows a presentation of our present through historical material (Hein, 1986:174). The anachronisms are certainly there: machine guns, vodka, cigarettes, and newspapers, but their inclusion seems strained, and the play remains an excessively heterogeneous product, with many of the infelicities, in particular in dialogue, of the Hollywood bio-pic. In Lassalle Hein mimics another theatrical style (that of a late nineteenth century boulevard play) in his presentation of a failed revolutionary, the victim of his time, of his society and its anti-semitism, and of his own hopes to achieve what proved to be beyond him. Hein demonstrates a greater facility for credible characterization and for dialogue fluency in this play than in Cromwell, but Lassalle was not wholly successful on stage. Its main interest for this study lies in Hein’s discovery in it of the focusing effect of a single indoor location, which he will employ as a device to concentrate the audience’s attention on the action of his next three plays. Lassalle is impotent because he is trapped in his social milieu. Later we shall encounter, in three very different plays, characters equally impotent because trapped, and whose entrapment is represented in their stage location. Hein rewrote The True Story of Ah Ku (Die wahre Geschichte des Ah Q) a number of times, even in the form of a monologue for Ah Ku before its première at the Kammerspiel of the Deutsches Theater in 1984. The story is taken from Lu Xun, one of Hein’s favorite authors, and opens with a petty crook and an anarchist intellectual passively awaiting the revolution in China in 1911. Ah Ku, Wang, the watchman, and the policeman Masker miss the revolution as they lie drunk on liquor paid for by Ah Ku’s mugging of a rich merchant in the city. The fact that the revolution arrives and that the only change in the village is the addition of the word “revolutionary” to the existing institutions of oppression astonishes Ah Ku, who had assumed that he and his intellectual friend Wang would be consulted. Where Hein’s GDR contemporary Volker Braun addresses the subject of revolution in an oriental setting (in The Great Peace), his subject is the rulers. Hein on the other hand chooses to view the onset of the revolution in China from the perspective of a group of little people, whose ignorance he can employ to point up political inconsistencies within the play and, by analogy, within his own society. His subject is not that of power politics, but of the impact of such politics on those trapped on stage and unable to avoid being affected by them. Even his later depiction of the court of King Arthur is a study of the inability of the court to influence events outside the castle. In The True Story of Ah Ku, the integrity of the depiction of the bizarre single microcosm of the setting, “A hall which resembles a grain silo or an attic or an abandoned church” (Hein, 1984b:82), allows Hein to persuade his audience of the peculiar logic in the discussions between Ah Ku and Wang, which frequently present a dislocated rationality similar to that of Vladimir and Estragon in Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. Our ready acceptance of this singular world allows us to hear and accept from the mouths of its inhabitants universal truths similar to those uttered by Beckett’s tramps. Hein paints a bleak picture of institutionalized, partial revolution. But he saves his sharpest comment for the central characters: Ah Ku, the stupid, petty criminal unable to resist his carnal lust for the nun; Masker, the timeserving policeman, ready to execute his friend Ah Ku, despite knowing that he must

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be innocent of the crime; and Wang, the cowardly anarchist intellectual, unwilling either to defend his friend or his own declared convictions. With a cruel but telling irony, Ah Ku is executed for a crime he could not have committed, instead of for the bungled rape of the nun. It might be excessively fanciful to suggest that such an underserved death could serve as atonement for past sin (as it might in a play by the idealist Schiller), allowing Ah Ku to attain tragic stature, but the realist Hein does not grant his character either tragic potential or the intelligence required for the necessary awareness of his situation. The “little people” presented in the play are unable to appreciate the revolution or their potential rôle in it. They are all to some extent exploited by their situation and each other: “The rape on the one hand and anarchy on the other are related. The one violation is the result of the other” (Hein, 1984a:7). Perhaps the play shows that all the characters (including the watchman), through their unwillingness to assume responsibility for themselves and their actions, get the revolution they deserve: a bourgeois revolution. Passage was premiered jointly by the Dresden Staatsschauspielhaus and the Weimar Studiobühne in 1988. Once again the play concerns a group of people trapped in a single set for the duration of the action. This time a group of German refugees from the Nazis are waiting on the Franco-Spanish border for a passage into Spain and from there onwards to the USA. There is a lock on the door in Ah Ku; in Passage the peculiar relationship between the refugees and the villagers means that they may not leave the back room except on particular business. Whereas Ah Ku showed many traces of quirky humour, Passage presents its deadly serious subject with many of the elements of farce: the world as controlled by the Nazis has gone mad. The Nazis here have replaced the revolutionary Lord as the irresistible power. It is as if the refugees are the last representatives of sanity trapped in a cage surrounded by insanity. There would appear to be only three possible courses of action. First, one can remain silent and compliant, tacitly accepting the inhumanities being perpetrated. Second, like the sinologist Frank-further, one can follow Walter Benjamin and escape by way of suicide. Third, and most extraordinarily, one can defeat insanity by undertaking an action which is itself completely insane. The arrival of the fifteen caftan-wearing Jews from Auschwitz represents the double negative of the defeat of insanity by an action of greater insanity, and the belief expressed in the certainty of their success in crossing the mountains led by Hirschburg offers hope for an eventual victory of humanity over barbarism. It was to emphasize this conclusion that Klaus Dieter Kirst, the director of the Dresden premiere, had the apparently solid and constricting set dissolve at the end of the play to leave the cast on an empty stage backed by a cyclorama of stars. Passage may seem on the surface a realistic play. The language is colloquial and naturalistic, but Hein maintains that naturalism would be lethal for the play. At the 1988 Leipzig Theater Workshop discussion of Passage, Hein rejected Dürren-matt’s statement that all that was necessary in the staging of a play was to show the foreground and the background would make itself apparent of its own accord. He insists on the poetic, even mythic quality of the text, which was comprehensively exploded by the West German premiere at Essen in which the director had the fifteen Jews walk across the back of the stage. The Knights of the Round Table, which premiered at the Dresden Staatsschauspielhaus in 1989, represents the summation of Hein’s assessment of the development of the GDR. Again the single stage setting, here dominated by the

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Round Table itself, represents an enclosed and constricting arena for the action. Again Hein chooses to distance his allegory, on this occasion by setting it in medieval England. In a transparent if not direct parallel to the situation in the GDR at the time, Hein characterizes the bankrupcy of the old regime in Arthur’s castle by the small number of remaining knights, their advanced age, the softening of their attitudes (for example towards the rights of women), and the corruption of their earlier ideals. The collapse of the old certainties is symbolized by the broken leg on the Round Table, and additionally by Arthur’s unwillingness or inability to command the court carpenters to repair it. Women sit at the Table, knights and their ladies drink schnaps and smoke cigarettes, preferring tennis to noble deeds, and Parzival (once a prominent Round Table knight and supporter of Arthur’s ideals) is engaged in the publication of a periodical chronicling the decline of the court. Arthur’s final crisis of confidence is precipitated by the failure in their quests of his last two active knights. Gawain writes to inform Arthur that he has abandoned the quest for the Grail. He is no longer young enough to follow his ideals to no purpose, preferring to stay in Castle Merveille, plant trees, and live as a farmer. Lancelot on the other hand returns after two years and refuses to speak until, at a full meeting of the court, he admits that the people no longer believe in the Grail, nor do they respect those knights who dedicate their lives to the quest. But this is not simply a condemnation of the old guard in the Central Committee of the SED. The interest in the text lies in the subtle articulation of the various characters, assessments of the achievements of the Round Table knights, and the implied extrapolations to the situation in the GDR in 1989. Parzival accuses Kay of discouraging the younger generation by his insistence on the old values and virtues and of being insensitive to changing conditions. Kay replies that the knights have in fact dedicated themselves as well as sacrificing the lives of many other knights for a future that nobody wants. Arthur claims that the knights achieved much of what they intended: the introduction of law and order, the guarantee of the people’s safety on the streets and in their houses, and the eradication of hunger, but he is aware that the people are not satisfied. This for him can only mean that more remains to be done. Parzival agrees that peace has been established, but denounces it as the peace of petty minds and a police state. The people cannot be beaten into accepting peace. Mordred, Arthur’s heir and the representative of the upcoming generation, questions the confidence of the knights in their course of action, suggesting that for them the future was always an open book, that they could not conceive of the possibility of error in their plans. If events turn out differently from what they expect, he accuses them of failing to see that the fault could be theirs, instead of laying the blame at the door of history. But however much Mordred despises the knights, he claims to despise himself even more for squandering his life without any aim. The knights may have been misguided, but they believed that they were creating a better world. The present generation is not granted any such belief. If the Grail is seen to represent human happiness, both for the knights and Mordred, the abandonment of the quest for it amounts to an acceptance that humanity’s lot on earth is destined to be an unhappy one (a gloomy premonition as the imminent collapse of the communist system became apparent). The knights are coming to realize that the table and their brotherhood have no essential significance. The table is just a piece of furniture and anyone may sit with impunity on the seat reserved for the Chosen One, and, if there

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is no general acceptance of its validity, all those knights who have died for the cause have died in vain. But at the end, there is a slight glimmer of hope. Arthur and Mordred talk honestly, perhaps for the first time, and Arthur forsees a new, different way forward. It is not for him to find, but for Mordred to seek. However, the play ends enigmatically with Mordred stating that he will put the table in a museum to clear the air, and that there is much he will destroy. By clearing the table out of the hall, he will, as it were, break out of the enclosed world, symbolized on stage by the dominating presence of the table, but there is no guarantee that the freedom he and his generation will find will bring any more fulfilment than the world of the Round Table. The play offers insights not only into the generation of the hidebound, geriatric leadership of the GDR, but also into Hein’s own approach to doctrine. The overall message of the play remains equivocal. While the follies and false beliefs of the knights are exposed, there is also sympathy and understanding for the ideals to which they felt they were remaining faithful. If Ah Ku offered only a negative picture both of the revolution and those it passes by, and Passage concludes with a somewhat romantic vision of a positive humanity based on individual commitment, The Knights of the Round Table offers a balanced and sympathetic view of the profit and loss account of an experiment in social engineering. There is a fatalism in Hein’s characters, a sense that however hard they try, as try they must, they are condemned always to fail, or at least not to succeed. It is the wry, stoical humor with which this lack of success is accepted by his characters that typifies much of Hein’s writing. When this sense of humor in the face of the futility of human endeavour was pointed out to him, Hein merely replied: “You need a sense of humor to live in a system like ours.” 1 If this stoical acceptance of the imperfection of their situations may be seen as typical of his characters, it is certainly not the whole story of Hein himself. Both in his essays and in his public pronouncements he has repeatedly taken a robust line on matters political, literary and theatrical. The Knights of the Round Table exemplifies Hein’s powers of observation and expression, his sense of humor, his love of the incongruous and of paradox, and his incisive, wry wit, but above all the sympathy and humanity which elevates him into one of the most original and perceptive commentators on the GDR. References Hein, Christoph (1984a) Program notes to Die wahre Geschichte des Ah Q, Deutsches Theater, Berlin Hein, Christoph (1984b) Die wahre Geschichte des Ah Q. In Die wahre Geschichte des Ah Q: Stücke und Essays, pp. 81–135 Darmstadt and Neuwied: Luchterhand. Hein, Christoph (1986) Hamlet und der Parteisekretär. In Schlötel oder Was solls: Stücke und Essays, pp. 177–182 Darmstadt and Neuwied: Luchterhand.

1

Christoph Hein in conversation with the author, Berlin, 1986.

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Christoph Hein between Ideologies, or, Where Do the Knights of the Round Table Go after Camelot Falls? David W. Robinson

Christoph Hein occupies a unique position in East German letters and politics: typical in his career as a more-or-less loyal (i.e., pro-socialist) opponent of the GDR regime, he is unusual in remaining untouched by accusations of corruption. His critical stance toward both Eastern and Western society makes him difficult to assimilate into the intellectual atmosphere of the unified Germany. His late-GDR work, including the play Knights of the Round Table, should not be too quickly dismissed as merely of historical interest, since Hein’s critique of ideology has urgent relevance for the present political situation. KEY WORDS: Hein, Wolf, Müller, ideology, history In 1987, in the depths of the GDR’s last major crackdown on uncooperative or uncomfortable artists, playwright Christoph Hein told an interviewer for the East German journal Theater der Zeit that “The contemporary stage is a splendid opportunity for writing fiction” (Hein, 1987:101).1 By this typically acerbic remark, Hein meant a number of things. First, he was alluding to the chill which had marked official cultural policy since the exile in 1976 of political singer Wolf Biermann and the protests that followed. Second, he was describing the rather besieged position of dramatists amid the heavily politicized atmosphere of the East German theatrical establishment, which had as its most sensitive responsibility the management of large public assemblages of citizens, namely audiences, who were always ready to view dramatic performances as political allegories, and thus as an escape from the enforced unanimity of public discourse. And third, he was announcing his own course change as a writer, which would result in the stories and novels of the 1980s that brought him critical acclaim and enormous popularity in both Germanies. Hein was therefore able to carry on his challenge to moribund Stalinism by other means as the 1980s arrived, while most of his plays languished either unstaged or staged only in West Germany.

1

This and all subsequent translations are my own.

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The events of 1989 and the subsequent absorption of the GDR by West Germany swept away a whole Byzantine world of stable ideologies and wellhoned strategies of opposition. Accordingly, it plunged the dissident artists of the GDR into severe ideological, political, and artistic confusion. An early and spectacular event in this disorienting new situation was the pillorying of novelist Christa Wolf by the West German press when she published What’s Left, a fictionalized account of her surveillance by the East German secret police in the late 1970s.2 Since Wolf had been a long-time member of the Communist Party and had declined to criticize the government publicly before 1989, she was now accused of seeking political absolution in the new, post-Communist Germany. Despite the crudeness of these attacks against Wolf (which had little to say about the book itself or about her 25 years of steady resistance to GDR culture policy), an important question was raised: what was to be the function or niche of writers of the former GDR (to say nothing of the literary-historical assessment of their earlier works) now that they were no longer able to define themselves artistically in relation to a Communist regime with whose ideals they had identified, but whose practices had been abhorrent to them? Since for many of these independent-minded authors there was no question of embracing Western-style capitalism, what, as Wolf had asked, really was left for them? Both the specific political views of GDR writers and the kind of material they write about tend to make them unpalatable in the post-1989 West, and often render them largely incomprehensible to outsiders. Christoph Hein, who has long enjoyed enormous popularity throughout Germany and who remains, unlike his equally famous colleagues Christa Wolf and Heiner Müller, untouched by allegations of secret-police collaboration, provides a good illustration of how barriers to the Western (i.e., contemporary) reception of East German literature function. Tobegin with, Hein’s politics and the role he played in the cultural struggles of the GDR elude easy categorization. Hein’s father was a Lutheran minister; put at an educational disadvantage by his family background, he lived and studied for a time in West Berlin; and after being forbidden through the 1960s to attend a university (in retribution for his time in West Berlin), he ended up studying Logic and Philosophy at Karl Marx University in Leipzig. Hein says that his disillusionment with Sovietstyle socialism came as early as August 1968, when Warsaw Pact troops crushed the Dubček regime in Czechoslovakia (Hein, 1993). Yet he chose to remain a resident of the GDR even during the dark days of the late 1970s, rising to prominence as a dramaturge at the Berlin Volksbühne, and later as an independent playwright and novelist. From his first play Schlötel or What’s the Point? (1974) through his bestknown play The True Story of Ah Koo (1983) and the other plays and novels of the 1980s, including his last GDR play, The Knights of the Round Table (1989),3 Hein repeatedly explored the relation between individual political and moral choices and the pressures exerted by the state toward conformity. Sometimes, as in Schlötel or in the novel Horn’s Fate (1985), this struggle manifests itself as the predicament of the intellectual in a society whose ideals are appealing but whose reality is determined by political cynicism and corruption; sometimes, as in Cromwell (1980) and Knights, 2

For a fuller discussion of the Wolf controversy, see Katrin Sieg’s essay in this issue of CTR. 3 My English translation of Hein’s play follows this essay.

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passionately held political ideologies lead to unanticipated outcomes, turning on their partisans and destroying them; and sometimes, as in Ah Koo or in the novels The Distant Lover (1982) and The Tango Player (1989), the option of withdrawing oneself from society is exposed as a pernicious illusion that perpetuates oppression. Hein himself meanwhile became one of the small number of GDR dissident authors who managed both to live and to publish within their homeland, and like them, he participated in the extraordinary subculture of writers and their readers which, operating with handed-along, often smuggled books, through public readings, and through the letters of readers to authors, constituted the GDR’s closest approximation to free public discourse. (The churches played a similar, but significantly smaller role.) Operating from the idiosyncratic position of the sympathetic political outsider, or better, of the anarchist who hates the ideological mystifications that reinforce the power of any political system, Hein established himself as one of the most important internal, left-wing critics of the GDR. And like Wolf and Müller, he has also been a trenchant critic of Western capitalism, most explicitly in his numerous essays (collected in 1987 as Working Publically), but also in his novels, where the West is generally painted as alien and unappealing, full of rapacious entrepreneurs and intellectual charlatans. He is particularly harsh in his assessment of Western leftist intellectuals, whose inconsequential moralizing about Eastern and Western societies is contrasted with the clarity of vision forced on Eastern leftists by lived confrontation with their own ideology. In response to leftist cause-mongering, with its tendency to take up false utopias and then toss them aside when they prove disappointing, Hein asserts: My struggles here are not so easy. For us, Cuba is a story that isn’t over. We haven’t yet been able to file away China, Vietnam, or Cambodia. All of the problems and hardships of these countries and of my country will remain my problems and hardships. We are backward enough here to think that Stalin still has some life in him. (Hein, 1987:152) Hein’s contempt for the intellectual vacuousness of the West and his rage at the raw brutality of the East remained in evidence after the events of Fall 1989. Although he characteristically declined to join any new group or party, Hein was one of the many artists and writers who helped bring on the collapse of the communist regime by denouncing the use of force by police thugs during the GDR’s 40th anniversary celebrations, and by speaking out at the mass demonstration on Alexanderplatz the weekend prior to the opening of the German—German border. After the opening of the Wall, Hein used his new status as a pan-German media figure to argue for a renewal of a socialism worthy of the name, telling Neues Deutschland, the official Party newspaper, “We have now been granted the enormous opportunity to build, for the first time, real socialism on German soil” (quoted in Hammer, 1992:164). He continued to call for a democratic and socialist society distinct from West Germany well after it was clear to him that the GDR had become, with the blessing of its own citizens, the target of the largest leveraged buyout in history. Hein’s outspoken political sentiments and the long-term anti-ideological project of his literary efforts seem poorly suited to resonate with the currently dominant orthodoxies of the triumphant West. However, this dissonance is nothing new (it was, after all, as an oppositional figure, as a challenger of political limits, that Hein made his mark in the GDR), so the current sorting out of the consequences of

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German unification does not necessarily bode ill for the future impact of Hein through his drama, fiction, and essays. As in 1978, the current political circumstances (this time in the West) appear to offer greater opportunities for fiction than for drama, and accordingly, Hein’s first post-Wall work (apart from numerous speeches and essays) was a novel published in 1993, The NapoleonGame. The novel startled many readers by containing almost nothing about the collapse of the GDR; it deals instead with a West German sociopath who, to fend off his boredom with professional and material success, stalks and murders an innocent stranger. As the reviewer for the former-East-German weekly Die Wochenpost observed wryly, Hein has evinced a certain impertinence in presuming to describe the West (and in such unflattering terms), putting West Germans on the receiving end of the kind of sociological critique they have been lavishing on their Eastern neighbors. Particularly ironic is the way the Western press has manifested its defensiveness: Hein is accused of ignorance about the West, of not choosing a typical character, of dreaming up absurd fantasies and passing them off as fact (Kopka, 1993). These are, of course, precisely the objections raised by GDR ideologues who argued that the cold, alienated, self-destructive heroes of Hein’s earlier novels and plays were unrepresentative of the advanced condition of socialist society, and that Hein should acquaint himself better with life in his homeland.4 The real situation in Hein’s new novel is, as usual, considerably less banal than the critical objections to it; the complexity of Hein’s vision of West and East is suggested by the stunning setting of The Napoleon Game’s climactic murder: it takes place on a West Berlin S-Bahn train passing through one of the “ghost stations” lying below the streets of East Berlin. Hein’s future as a dramatist in the new Germany and its changed theatrical establishment remains an open question, despite the flurry of productions of his plays Ah Koo, Passage, and Knights of the Round Table in 1990 and 1991, after state censorship had been abolished.5 The case of Knights illustrates both the problems and the possibilities. The play revisits the legends of the Arthurian knights and their search for the Holy Grail, focusing, however, on the aftermath of the grand early exploits, once the heroes and heroines have grown old and querulous. The play is a farce at the expense of the old warriors whose view of reality has become fossilized, hence a commentary on the fate of ideologues and their ideologies. The action takes place in the room housing the Round Table, which is now in disrepair and nearly deserted. The knights bicker among themselves about how to carry on, and some have given up the quest completely. The women bemoan the stupidity of the men and the loss of their own beauty. The younger generation, represented by Arthur’s son Mordred, appears destined to overturn all of Arthur’s achievements once it assumes power, yet Mordred has no idea what changes he might institute. And we learn that

4

Among many other examples, see Rüdiger Bernhardt’s contribution to “Der fremde Freund von Christoph Hein: Für und Wider” in Weimarer Beiträge. Bernhardt diagnoses “the author’s deficient ability to keep in mind the development possibilities of society while describing the individually possible experiences of his characters” (Bernhardt, 1983: 1638). 5 Shortly before press time, Hein’s first post-1989 play, Randow, was produced in Dresden to generally negative reviews. Once again, unflattering portrayals of the West seem to have annoyed the Western media.

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meanwhile, outside Camelot, Arthur and his knights have become the objects not of reverence but of contempt. Not even the threat of impending ecological disaster can rouse the embittered old men from their paralysis in the face of outcomes they never anticipated. The play ends with Arthur resignedly ackowledging that Mordred’s day has come, and that like it or not, it will be his responsibility to find a path into the future. The central philosophical burden of the play is the nature and meaning of the Grail, which appears to signify any ideal or utopia toward which human beings must strive in order to remain human, even when they know they can never attain it. The failure of Arthur and his knights to locate the Grail thus appears less tragic than inevitable, but so too is it inevitable that the whole process of pursuing the ideal, whether understood as social justice or personal fulfillment, will continue or begin again using other means. The desperation of the knights, their fear that everything they have lived for is slipping away, turns out to be a parochial, if understandable, illusion based on limited perspective. Thus the play is at once an allegory for the moribund state of the GDR in the late 1980s and an exploration of the role of utopian thinking in human experience, regardless of time or place (a favorite GDR theme). As such, it might be understood to speak to the fortunes of political idealism and social justice in the West as well as the East, and to the cyclic struggles that result when one generation must hand over power to a new one with wholly different experiences and views of the world. Despite this general applicability of the themes evident in the play, Knights was understood from the first as a straightforwardly hostile allegory of the GDR leadership, and little more. Governmental permission to produce the play came only at the last minute after a delay of many months; Hein defended himself against suspicions that Arthur and his knights were modelled on SED General Secretary Erich Honecker and his cronies by denying that he would have stooped to the flattery suggested by such an analogy (Hammer, 1992:226)! Nevertheless, the timing of the play’s premier did nothing to discourage the view that Arthur was Honecker and the Round Table was socialism: the desire of some of the knights to solve their problems by killing off the younger generation was horribly fulfilled in Tienanmen Square in May 1989, just a month after the play opened, and the impotence of an aging doctrinaire leadership was copied by GDR reality in October and November of the same year. Hein soon acquired the status not only of political dissident, but of prophet—a mixed blessing, since the immediate result was a great deal of public interest in the play, but at the cost of it being understood exclusively as a contemporary political allegory. Karla Kochta, a dramaturge at the Dresden State Theater where the play was first produced, relates how a group of West Berlin literature and theater students came in early 1990 to what they expected to be the GDR’s “perestroika play,” hence an already musty bit of history, only to be puzzled that the East German audience was responding to the theme of utopia as though it were still a living concern; the students, for their part, were surprised that Mordred didn’t smash the Siege Perilous (the seat of the Elect One) to pieces at the end of the play, thereby announcing the end of a failed ideology. The answer, for Kochta as for Hein, is that the failure of an ideology does not mean the end of hope for a better world (Hammer, 1992:225). The aspects of Knights that have relevance to the post-Cold War era are precisely those which early critics of the play ignored or failed to grasp. The reviewer for the West Berlin alternative daily tageszeitung was typical in judging the play a political

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allegory pure and simple, and then criticizing it for datedness and inadequacy to the torrent of real political events sweeping Germany in the Fall of 1989 (Hammer, 1992: 258). Theater heute complained that the allegory was too heavy-handed, but that, puzzlingly, the Dresden audiences seemed to respond to it (Hammer, 1992:258–259). The problem in each case may be traceable to ignorance (or amnesia) concerning Hein’s other plays, as well as his novels, in all of which the place of action, often enough the GDR, is incidental: the popularity of The Distant Lover, for example, resulted not from any West German taste for GDR-exotica, but from shocked recognition of the book’s depiction of alienated life in a modern urban-industrial society. Similarly, Hein’s novel Horn’s Fate explored the German, not just the East German, willingness to forget history, and Hein’s most successful play to date, Ah Koo, has been produced throughout Europe because of its insights about the fate of individuals in all revolutions, not just German or even socialist ones. The Knights of the Round Table is likewise a play about societies without a future, where old values have ceased to be relevant, the ruling class lacks the flexibility or creativeness to change, and the younger generation is plagued by hopelessness. It doesn’t take a sociologist to point out that these are characteristics, to varying degrees, of West German and American society, not just the endemic maladies of the defunct East Bloc. Thus West German critic Antje Janssen-Zimmermann has argued cogently that the play should be seen as a meditation on the fact that material prosperity does not necessarily result in happiness; alienation -of the Marxist sort or some other—is always with us, and Hein expects members of his audiences to apply the questions raised in the play to themselves now in an act of theatrical co-production (Hammer, 1992:184–194). The readiness of West Germans to ignore the contemporary relevance of Hein’s concern with idealism and personal moral choices speaks volumes about the reactionary political climate of unified Germany. The notion that the end of the Cold War somehow meant the end of ideological struggle merely reflects the Western point of view: ideology no longer exists, because what we do isn’t ideology, it’s just the plain, practical truth, like, for example, the practical need to seal one’s borders against the immigration of poor people.6 Another matter worth considering is the complete absence of Christoph Hein from the North American stage. As of 1991, Ah Koo had been produced in France, Austria, Switzerland, Portugal, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Brazil, and the United Kingdom, aside from numerous stagings within the two Germanies, yet neither this nor any other Hein play has had a major production in the United States. A contrasting case would be that of Heiner Müller, whose plays Cement, Mauser, and Hamlet Machine have been produced in America both by university and professional theater companies, and all of whose plays are available in English translation (none of Hein’s have been before now). The difference may be that Müller writes in a flamboyantly postmodern idiom, while Hein’s plays have more in common with French neoclassical comedy and 19th century German bourgeois tragedy. Müller’s status as a member of an international avant-garde has clearly won him a distinct constituency in the U.S., just as Christa Wolf’s novels and essays have become known here primarily through the efforts of feminist critics. Hein, on the other hand,

6

On this subject see Hein’s essay, “Eure Freiheit ist unser Auftrag: ein Brief an (fast alle) Ausländer—wider das Gerede vom Fremdenhaß der Deutschen” (Hammer, 1992:51–55).

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writes philosophical parables that lack stylistic fireworks aside from their frequent funniness, their embroilment with the absurdity of human weakness. It is to be hoped that Knights, along with Hein’s earlier plays and fiction works, will escape pigeon-holing as historically passé exercises in GDR allegory. Their critique of ideological blindness and willful amnesia appears applicable to the current German (and world) situation no less than to the vanished East Bloc. Plays and novels: that is what’s left. References Bernhardt, Rüdiger (1983) Contribution to: Der fremde Freund von Christoph Hein: Für und Wider. Weimarer Beiträge, 29, No. 9, 1635–1638 Hammer, Klaus (1992) Editor. Chronist ohne Botschaft: Christoph Hein: Ein Arbeitsbuch: Materialien, Auskünfte, Bibiliograhie. Berlin and Weimar: Aufbau Hein, Christoph (1993) Kennen Sie eigentlich noch Leute, die Bücher lesen?: Der Schriftsteller Christoph Hein über Spieler in der Gesellschaft und über den fortschreitenden Analphabetismus. Interview. Berliner Zeitung, May 1/2, 1993, p. 56 ——(1987) Öffentlich arbeiten: Essais und Gespräche. [Working Publicly: Essays and Interviews.] Berlin and Weimar: Aufbau ——(1990) “Die Ritter der Tafelrunde” und andere Stücke. [“The Knights of the Round Table” and Other Plays.] Berlin and Weimar: Aufbau Kopka, Fritz-Jochen (1993) Reicher Irrer: Christoph Heins Nachwende-Buch hat die Kritik sich anders vorgestellt. Wochenpost, April 29, p. 26

90

The Knights of the Round Table: A Comedy Christoph Hein

Translated by David W. Robinson with permission of the publisher Copyright Aufbau-Verlag Berlin und Weimar, 1990 Dramatis Personae:

Guenevere Jeschute Kunneware Arthur Kay Aurelius Perceval Mordred Lancelot

Place: Camelot. Act I.

Main hall of Camelot. Guenevere sits at the Round Table reading a book. Enter Jeschute. Jeschute: I slept in late but I’m still so tired. Good morning, dear. How late is it? Guenevere: I don’t know, Jeschute. Good morning. They kiss. Jeschute: Is there any coffee left? Guenevere: Here you are. Have a croissant, too. Jeschute: What are you reading? Guenevere: Oh, nothing. A stupid novel. It’s so stupid that I’ve already forgotten what it’s about. Or maybe I’m too stupid to understand it. Did you sleep well? Jeschute: Like a log. No dreams. I was too drunk for that.

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Guenevere: Things ran late last night? Jeschute: Very late. Guenevere: It was awfully loud. I heard arguing. Jeschute: I’m sorry, Guenevere. The men went at it again and started shouting. Guenevere: As usual. Jeschute: Right. As usual. Year in, year out, the same arguments, the same stupid bickering. What’s happened to us, Guenevere? Guenevere: We’ve gotten old. Jeschute: You mean I’ve gotten old, don’t you? I suppose you’re right. I looked in the mirror this morning, good God-. When I was a young girl I wanted to die early. I was determined not to grow old. Then I was thirty and forty and finally fifty. Is it really better this way? If I had died young, today they’d be telling stories about young Jeschute, beautiful Jeschute. Instead—have you heard how the men talk about me? Guenevere: Forget about them. They’re just as old as you are. Jeschute: Well, I’m not sure that’s any comfort. They used to be such handsome men. Just think what handsome admirers we had, Guenevere. Even our husbands used to look pretty good. And now? What a sorry bunch of geezers—all the time bickering. You hardly want to talk to them anymore. Guenevere: Was Mordred there last night? Jeschute: Of course, drinking and shouting with the best of them. Guenevere: I feel sorry for the boy. Jeschute: Oh, nonsense. I admit he’s a pretty boy, but he bores me to tears with his complaining. Guenevere: He’s confused. Jeschute: You shouldn’t always make excuses for him, Guenevere. He’s twenty years old, he’s good-looking, he has his whole life ahead of him. Why does he have to go around whining like an old man? Guenevere: Young people have it harder now. For us it was easy as A-B-C. Nothing means anything to young people today. They question everything. Nothing has value, there’s nothing they respect. They’re so clever that they see through everything, and that makes them confused and unhappy. Jeschute: They do nothing, they want nothing, they just suffer. And they blame the world, or society, or us, for their misery. That’s not very resourceful, is it? Anyone can sit on his ass and complain. But how about doing something? Guenevere: You just don’t understand them. Jeschute: That’s enough, Guenevere, let’s not argue. The two of us at least can remain civil. She sits down on the high-backed chair by Guenevere. Enter Kay. Jeschute stands up hastily. Kay: Say—were you sitting on this chair? Jeschute: Pardon?

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Kay:

I asked if you were sitting on this chair. This chair here. (He indicates the chair, the Siege Perilous, on which Jeschute had been sitting.) Jeschute: Of course not. I’m neither elect nor crazy nor especially brave. Of course I wasn’t sitting on that chair. Ask Guenevere. Kay: Never mind then. It just seemed to me…. Guenevere: Good morning. Kay: Good morning, Guenevere. Good morning, Jeschute. I’m sorry, I must be hallucinating. Is there any coffee left? Guenevere: No, you’ll have to make another pot. And make enough for us, please. Kay: Have you been up long? How late has it gotten? What’s that you’re reading, can I have a look? (He takes Guenevere’s book.) Guenevere: It’s a novel. Give it back, Kay. It wouldn’t interest you anyway. Kay: Now, now, Guenevere. I used to read quite a lot. It’s a pleasant pastime and you can always learn something. Enjoyed in moderation it is very entertaining. Even useful. And for women and children it’s better at least than staring into space. Have I offended you? Guenevere: No, Kay, I’m used to you. Kay: (Laughs). All right, now I’ll make us some coffee. (He moves to go.) You’re used to me, that means you can ignore me, doesn’t it? Then just tell me what you really get out of books. Beautiful people, beautiful lives —what good is it? You want your own life to be that way, but since that’s impossible you get frustrated and depressed. You make yourself unhappy by reading. The problem with books is that they only speak to the soul. They live from emotion, they cultivate lovely feeling, they make people into monsters of lovely feeling, feeble snivellers with no reason or understanding, with sensitive souls bloated like diseased livers. Jeschute: Now there’s something you would know about. Guenevere: Let him finish. Kay: Of course, you can afford to live this way. It goes without saying that Arthur’s wife can spend her days lounging on the settee, tending her ohso-beautiful, oh-so-disconsolate soul. Unfortunately this soul-schmalz has begun to spread among the masses, poisoning perfectly healthy people who should be going about their work or caring for their children. Jeschute: (Bursts out laughing.) What an ass! Kay: Jeschute, you are a stupid cow. Show me the contrary or keep your mouth shut. Jeschute: A gallant knight, our Kay. Kay: I will not tolerate insults, not even from a woman. Lately women have been handed every possible privilege because they’re so downtrodden. But I’m sorry, I won’t be insulted. (To Guenevere.) As I was saying, these books poison the masses with illusions of a false but pleasing world. They hold up one or two very pure, very brave heroes, very honest and very sensitive, while the world they are forced to live in is gloomy, avaricious, cruel, selfish, opportunistic, what you will. In a word, they live among scoundrels and suffer for it. That’s the recipe for these novels of yours. The readers learn to empathize, to see themselves as noble, humane victims in a soulless, inhuman world. No brains, but

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lots of feeling. That’s gratifying, of course—everybody is a victim. And the villains are always the other people. No matter that all the other people get to feel the same way. Now if that isn’t opportunism, I don’t know what is. Jeschute: You are remarkable, Kay. Guenevere: Is that really what you think? Kay: I’m not only convinced of it, but it’s beyond me how other thinking people can refuse to acknowledge the facts of the matter. I once heard one of your artists give a talk. He was asked by one enraptured lady how he could create such great works of art. He told her that one needs to be extremely unhappy. Guenevere: An intelligent and very beautiful answer. Kay: Of course, that appeals to you. I thought as much. Let’s suppose the man is right and you really do need to be unhappy to produce a work of art. Let’s even suppose it’s a miraculous work of art without which the world would be a poorer place. What I simply cannot understand is why such a fellow would make himself unhappy just to produce a work of art. Doesn’t that seem unnatural? Guenevere: Maybe he doesn’t actually make himself unhappy, Kay. Maybe he has no other choice. Kay: Yes, yes. But then I wouldn’t say he was an artist, I’d say he was unfit for life. Jeschute: You are a fool, Kay. But it’s no surprise that a stupid ass like you can’t understand… Kay: I’m tempted to pop you one, but I think your husband will take care of that for me.—I’m going to make the coffee. (Exit.) Jeschute: Piece of shit. Guenevere: Stop it, Jeschute, please. Jeschute: Nosy bastard. Guenevere: Jeschute. Jeschute: It’s true, damn it. What business is it of his. Guenevere: Did I tell you that Arthur has news from Gawain? Jeschute: From Gawain? Is he coming back? Guenevere: I don’t know. Arthur hasn’t said a word. He stuffed the letter in his pocket without even looking at it. Jeschute: And Lancelot? Guenevere: Nothing. Arthur hasn’t heard a thing. Jeschute: Not even a little note for you? Guenevere: (Lights a cigarette.) I smoke too much. It’s bad for my skin. It shouldn’t be too hard to stop. I only smoke out of boredom. Jeschute: It will never be like the old days. Even if they come back, even if they all come back. The Round Table is finished. Guenevere: But it can’t just end like that. Jeschute: Why not? Silence. Enter Aurelius.

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Aurelius:

Ah, what a beautiful day. A splendid good morning to you both. You shouldn’t smoke so much, Guenevere. Guenevere: Have you been out for your walk in the forest? Aurelius: Yes, indeed. For almost an hour. (To Jeschute.) Do you have my milk ready? Jeschute: No. Aurelius: Then go and warm it. And bring me a croissant. Exit Jeschute. Aurelius: When did Jeschute get up? Guenevere: I wouldn’t know. Aurelius: That I don’t believe. You don’t always have to make excuses for her. I’m not going to gobble her up. I just don’t want her to let herself go. Guenevere: She does no more and no less than I do. Aurelius: Maybe so, but I’m not married to you. Guenevere: True. Aurelius: Yes, and I’m not as generous as Arthur. I’m not so easy-going. I can’t be like Arthur and shut my eyes so I won’t have to watch as my own wife… Guenevere: Why don’t you go on? Aurelius: It’s none of my business. Guenevere: Right, it’s none of your business, but you can’t stop talking about it. It’s nobody’s business, but all of you constantly waggle your tongues about me. About me and Arthur. How Arthur should defend his honor, his masculine honor. You want to see blood flow like animals, like bloodthirsty animals. Aurelius: There are some things you can’t discuss with a woman. Guenevere: How boring you are. Aurelius: I’m conservative, if you call that boring. The fact is well never agree on this point. For me there are such things as duty and honor. And despite all that modern claptrap there are still certain differences between the sexes. And that’s why I will not discuss a man’s duty and honor with a woman. Guenevere: But you’ll pass judgment about my duty and my honor? Aurelius: Yes, because you are staining Arthur’s honor. Please don’t forget that we aren’t a bunch of petty bourgeois. If we fail to carry out our duty, if this kingdom falls and the Round Table dissolves, then everyone will face ruin. Guenevere: What about this Round Table of yours you’d sacrifice me for? What has happened to the fame and glory of Camelot? Where did all the knights go? All I see is one jaundiced old man. Aurelius: I have never insulted you, Guenevere. If you can’t do me the same courtesy, please keep quiet. Guenevere: Broken-down men and faded women. Oh Aurelius, is there really anything left of the Round Table? After a pause enter Jeschute and Kay.

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Kay:

(To Jeschute.) On the contrary, my dear, I venerate you. T’as de beaux yeux, tu sais. But unfortunately that’s all. (To Aurelius.) You look exhausted. Don’t overdo it with those forest walks. Jeschute: Here’s your milk. Aurelius: Thank you. I’ll eat in my room. Is Arthur up? Guenevere: Yes, he’s working. Aurelius: That’s what I need to do. Kay: (Kicks at the Round Table. A leg falls off.) How many years has this leg been broken? Does anybody even know? We have two carpenters at court, but nobody can say anything to them. Aurelius: It wouldn’t help anyway. All Arthur has to do is give the word, but he doesn’t dare. He’s afraid of them. Jeschute: Then why don’t you speak to them? Aurelius: Well, they’ll pay attention to me. Enter Kunneware, Perceval, and Mordred. Kay: A rotten cabbage garnished with two green sprouts. What a sumptuous repast. Perceval: What are you muttering about, Kay? Kay: I’m taking a dark look at a darker future. No concern of yours, since you refuse to understand. Perceval: Still singing the same tune, Kay? Outdated virtues make a nice pillow, and threadbare hopes keep the feet warm. It’s time you opened your eyes. Kay: You gabble like a traitor. Mordred: Blah blah blah. Guenevere: Mordred, please. Jeschute: It’s pointless, Guenevere. Let’s get out of here. I can’t bear to listen. (Exit with Guenevere.) Kay: You are a green boy, Mordred, and for your father’s sake I will overlook many things. But beware of Perceval. He spreads despair like a paralyzing poison, the sweet poison of gloom and destruction. Mordred: I’m not a boy, old man, and even if Arthur takes your stale advice, I don’t. Pour me some coffee. Kay: Here you are. Kunneware: We’re supposed to play tennis. You promised me we would play tennis. Aurelius: It’s an outrage. Kay: Don’t get worked up. Aurelius: You’re looking at men who were fighters. Kay and I spilled blood for Arthur, for the kingdom, for the Grail. We stood by our King in countless battles against Klingsor the Merciless, the Bloodthirsty. So we’re not going to let ourselves be slandered by a stupid boy who’s never left his warm seat by the fire. Perceval: I fought, too, Aurelius. Don’t forget that. Aurelius: I haven’t forgotten, Perceval, but it seems you have. What does the Grail mean to you now? What do all your years of struggle mean?

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Mordred:

Bloody battles, the implacable foe. It’s all so long ago that it’s barely real now. And the legendary Grail! When I was a child I used to shit in my pants for dread when you told stories about the Grail. I knew it had to be the most wonderful thing in the world. And all along you didn’t even know what it was. Nobody can say what that means: the Grail. Aurelius: It is something very beautiful, Mordred. Mordred: A beautiful something that may not even exist. Aurelius: It is something very, very beautiful, and you, poor boy, will never possess it. Mordred: Sure, because it doesn’t exist. You’ve spent your lives chasing a phantom. You’ve beat your heads bloody for a pipe-dream. Just look at your Grail Knights. Worn-out, disgruntled, impotent old coots with a grudge against life. Do you really think I want to end up the same way? Kay: What about Klingsor? Klingsor the Bloodthirsty, the Treacherous, who threatens our land, who murdered our bravest knights, who ceaselessly raises mercenary armies to burn our villages, murder our peasants, pillage our homes—is he a phantom, too? Mordred: I wouldn’t know. It’s all so long ago. Maybe Klingsor is just another sad old man now, a crotchety, disappointed wreck. I’ve never seen Klingsor. I only know your stories about him, that he drinks blood, that he loves war. Is he my enemy because you say he is? Kay: Then may God have mercy on us. We will be delivered defenseless into Klingsor’s hands once Arthur is gone and the country falls to these people. Your seed has sprouted, Perceval. Kunneware: Mordred, Perceval, let’s go. You promised me. Perceval: You’re wrong, Kay. The soil for this seed has been prepared by people like you. You scare children with stories and keep young people from thinking for themselves. You cling like mad to the old virtues. But even virtue needs to be tried out occasionally, or it mildews. Aurelius: Perceval, the Defender of Virtue. And what do you have to show for yourself? Or you, Mordred? Nothing but complaints and dissatisfaction. Your weepiness is revolting. You bore me. Goodbye. I have things to do. Mordred: Writing your memoirs. Aurelius: As a matter of fact, yes, Mordred. A worthy and meaningful activity. Mordred: Who’s going to read them, Aurelius? We’re already sick to death of your heroic deeds. Nobody wants to hear it any more. Aurelius: I may not have anything earthshaking to tell, but it’s a thousand times better than whining all day. (Exit.) Kunneware: I’m going, too. I’m sick of hearing all this. Perceval: All right, Kunneware, let’s go. (Exit with Kunneware and Mordred.) Kay: God help us. Enter Arthur. Arthur: Kay. Are you alone? Kay: Yes.

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Arthur: How are things going? Damn, that leg has fallen off again. How many times have I propped it back up these last few months. I keep meaning to tell the carpenters, but I always forget. (He puts the leg back in place.) There’s no excuse for that. The Round Table should always be in good repair. After all, it’s not just any piece of furniture. Kay: God help us. I don’t know what we did wrong, but it must have been rank stupidity if people like this are the sole result of our efforts. Nothing has any meaning for them, they spit on the Grail, they mock our ideals. They laugh at us. And why not: we’ve sacrificed our lives for a future that nobody wants. Arthur: What’s bothering you, Kay? Kay: I’m afraid, Arthur. I’m afraid of dying. Arthur: That’s only natural. Kay: I’m afraid of going to my grave and leaving our world to people like your son. Arthur: Have you been having bad dreams? Kay: Evil premonitions, let’s say. Because I didn’t sleep. I saw your grave, Arthur. I saw Mordred, your son, sitting on your throne. I saw the Round Table smashed, I saw a desolate land. Arthur: What should I do? There’s no way I can stop it. Kay: You can’t just close your eyes and let it happen. You’re King Arthur. You hold the power and you carry the responsibility. Arthur: What should I do, Kay? Kay: Have we made mistakes? Arthur: I don’t know. Kay: No. We made no mistakes. Not a single one. Step by step we kept to the right path. We had to make painful choices, we even had to spill blood that cost us dearly. But each step was necessary and correct. Arthur: Perhaps, Kay. Perhaps we haven’t made any mistakes. But we’ve become isolated. No one visits us, the Round Table is shunned. We have only a few friends left. Kay: Our history is unblemished, our policies were flawless. Arthur: Yes, those were great times. And we achieved much of what we set out to do. We brought justice and law into the world, we set up a more equitable society. The people grew prosperous, the houses and streets were safe. Who can remember today what hunger is! But are the people happy? We certainly expected that to follow. Yet now I see nothing but dissatisfied faces around me. We did our best, we devoted our lives to finding the Grail. So many knights lost their lives on the quest. Was it all for nothing? Kay: I plan to make sure it hasn’t been, Arthur. Arthur: But how, Kay? What can we do? Kay: You must pass laws that will make our labors indestructible. Laws forcing every new generation to continue the search for the Grail Arthur: A law can’t determine the future. Laws are words. Even laws can be destroyed. We have no choice but to trust our children.

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Kay:

Trust them! I do not trust them. I don’t trust your son, Arthur. If we don’t find the Grail before these people come to power…. You have news from Lancelot? What does he say? Arthur: You really saw my grave? Kay: Yes. Arthur: What did it look like? Did you see the date? No, no, no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I don’t believe in apparitions. We don’t understand them, and when we try to decipher them we get tangled in uncertainty. Keep your knowledge to yourself. Kay: My premonitions have never lied. Arthur: I don’t want to know, Kay. Kay: It wasn’t just your grave I saw. I saw a devastated land. Will you ignore that, too? Arthur: Yes. It would only drive me to despair. It’s odd, Kay, how we want so badly to know what the next day will bring, when we could never live with such knowledge if we had it. We would be paralyzed. Kay: That’s absurd. Arthur: Don’t get angry, Kay. You’re clever, you have a sharp mind, but not even you can see the future. Kay: You talk like a child. We have a country to rule, we must create the future ourselves. Arthur: Yes, absolutely.—I sit day in, day out facing stacks of paper. I do my schoolwork. So please allow me now and then to talk like a child. Kay: I fear for our kingdom. Arthur: And not just you.—It is a beautiful table. It pleases me still. And it was a beautiful idea. We have accomplished a great deal. When I think back…. Do you know what just occurred to me? Kay: No. Arthur: I thought of Guenevere. I still love her. She was a beautiful girl, wasn’t she? And she is still a splendid woman. I have every reason to be content. Whatever else happened, and whatever else comes, I’ve had a good life.— Why are you angry?—Have you seen Guenevere? Kay: Yes. We had coffee. Arthur: And where is she now? Kay: I wouldn’t know. And I don’t care, either. And I don’t consider her a splendid woman. Because the chief virtue of a woman is her fidelity, Arthur, her marital fidelity… Arthur: That’s enough, Kay, please. Kay: She’s a disgrace to the entire Round Table… Arthur: Silence.—I love her. I love her above everything and despite everything. Kay: Oh, the hell with it. I’ve already had breakfast. Let’s get to work.—Say, do you know what I thought when I came in here a while ago? It seemed to me that Jeschute had been sitting on the Siege Perilous. Arthur: Where? Kay: Here on the Siege Perilous. Arthur: Jeschute? Impossible. Kay: That’s how it seemed to me.

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Arthur: But Jeschute certainly can’t be the Elect One we’ve been waiting for. You must be mistaken. Kay: No doubt. She also swore that she hadn’t been sitting on it. Arthur: She would have died horribly. Like the others. Kay: Of course. Arthur: Only the Elect One can sit on the Siege Perilous. You have peculiar dreams. Kay: True enough, but in the old days women weren’t even allowed to sit at the Round Table. And now it’s taken for granted. Arthur: The old days. There used to be a hundred knights here every day. We had to set up extra benches for them and there still wasn’t room. Let the women sit where they like. We have plenty of room now. I don’t wish to sit across from empty seats. Enter Aurelius. Aurelius: I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Arthur. They all said you were working. I went to your room, I went to the tower, I’ve been all over Camelot… Arthur: What is it? Aurelius: I have an idea, Arthur. I think it’s a very good idea. Wait a moment, Kay, I want you to hear it, too. All right: I’ve been thinking our situation over. Do you know what’s missing? Arthur: What do you have in mind? Aurelius: You’ll be surprised how simple it is. What we need is a tournament. Arthur: A tournament, Aurelius? Aurelius: Precisely! It’s too long since we had one. The knights, the contests, the crowds, flags and music everywhere, a celebration of struggle and virtue. A celebration of our highest ideals. It will electrify the young people. Kay: You think so? Aurelius: No question about it. A tournament will drive them wild. The masses have always loved tournaments. Arthur: I don’t know, Aurelius… Aurelius: Oh, I admit, tournaments aren’t cheap. But we shouldn’t be afraid of cost when the return is so great. We mustn’t undervalue the fervor of our young people. We’ll be paid back in the end. Kay: And who will compete? You? Aurelius: Now you’re being tactless. No, I won’t be mounting any more horses. I find it too strenuous. But we have enough good people here. I was even thinking of Perceval. Whatever his opinions may be now, he still cuts a dashing figure at a tournament. And anyway, we’ll be deluged with contestants when we make the announcement. Every hero in the land. Arthur: I’m not so sure about that. Aurelius: When they hear that we’re inviting them to a tournament, they’ll come. Arthur: Every time I invite them to sit at the Round Table, they have prior engagements. Kay: And when will this marvelous tournament take place? Aurelius: How about when Gawain and Lancelot come back? That would be a good occasion.

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Arthur: I haven’t heard from Lancelot. I don’t even know where he is. Aurelius: What about Gawain? Arthur: I don’t know. I’ve been hearing the strangest rumors about him Kay: I believe he just wrote to you. Don’t you have a letter from him? Arthur: Yes, but I haven’t opened it yet. I haven’t had time. Aurelius: You haven’t read it? Why not? Kay: My God, Arthur, now you’re afraid to read letters. Arthur: I’m afraid I already know what he says. Kay: Give me the letter. Arthur: No. I’ll read it. Right now. What you said is true, Kay. It really is hard for me to open this letter. (Exit.) Aurelius: So much for that. A tournament without contestants—that certainly won’t do. At any rate it was a good idea I had. What a shame. Too bad. Enter Mordred. He walks across the stage, reaches toward the Siege Perilous, bursts out laughing, and exits. Aurelius: Did you see that, Kay! Kay: No. (Exit Kay.) Act II.

Main hall at Camelot with the Round Table. The chairs, except for the Siege Perilous, are in disarray. Magazines, books, and manuscripts are lying everywhere. Kunneware, Perceval, Mordred. Perceval and Kunneware sit at the table editing manuscripts. Perceval: I’m glad that we’re almost done with this issue.—You could lend a hand too, Mordred. Mordred: I don’t feel like it. Perceval: What’s the problem, Mordred? Mordred: I just don’t feel like it, that’s all. I’m in a bad mood. Perceval: Do as you like. Mordred: Yes, I’ll do that. Once I know what I like. I have a slight problem with that. Kunneware: What do you mean? Mordred: I don’t even know why I’m here. Kunneware: Where? Here in the castle? Then why don’t you go somewhere else? Mordred: No, I don’t have another place in mind. I don’t know why I’m in the world at all. And I’m always wondering if I shouldn’t just leave it. Isn’t it stupid or foolhardy to start something, when you don’t even know what’s going to happen in the next five minutes? Our Grail Knights, of course, our great old men don’t have that problem. They see the future as an open book, they know for certain about everything. And if events take an unexpected turn, it’s history’s mistake, not theirs. It must take a complete idiot to act so fearlessly, unhindered by any scruple, unplagued by any doubt. Kunneware: What a strange person you are. I don’t know whether I should be shocked by what you say, or just laugh. Are you trying to make a joke?

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Mordred: Perceval: Mordred: Perceval:

Sure, a joke. What else. Do you have Gawain’s letter? No. The old man wouldn’t show it to me. We must see it. Gawain’s letter would be worth its weight in gold to us if the rumors are true. Mordred: Arthur knows that too. He won’t give it to you. Perceval: He must. The fact is I’m still a Knight of the Round Table. Mordred: Oh hell, the letter doesn’t really matter. Perceval: What do you mean, Gawain’s letter doesn’t matter? I don’t understand you, Mordred. Mordred: None of that stuff matters. Why don’t you write about Ither, about the death of Ither the Red Knight? That would be a lot more interesting. If I’m not mistaken, you know some of the details. Perceval: Those were painful decisions, but necessary ones. We had to part company with many knights Mordred: You parted their heads from their bodies, too. Perceval: It was a complicated, difficult time, Mordred. It was a life and death struggle… Mordred: I’ve read the schoolbooks. It didn’t take much back then, did it? One false word, one false look, one watchful neighbor. Perceval: What do you know about it. Mordred: Tell me then. I’m waiting. Why did Ither have to die? And all the others? How many did you kill? Why don’t you write about that? Perceval: Those were… Mordred: Tragic events. I know. Is that really the best you can do? Enter Aurelius. Aurelius: Is this necessary, Perceval? Can’t you keep all this garbage in your room? Perceval: No. Aurelius: This isn’t an office. Mordred: What is it about illiterates, that the sight of books enrages them? Aurelius: This is the Round Table, Perceval. Show some respect. Mordred: (Raps on the table.) It’s wood, old man, a natural substance, a cellular tissue of the plant kingdom, useful as a building material, and easily burnt. No mystical-metaphysical aspects seem to be in evidence. Aurelius: You’re right, my child, you wouldn’t see anything here but wood. Mordred: Your child, gallant knight? Did you sleep with my mother? Or are you a blockhead? Aurelius: I pity you. Mordred: You’re repeating yourself. That’s unforgivable in old men. (Exit.) Aurelius: Poor child. You have so many years before you, and so little reason to live. What will become of you? (Goes to the table and picks up a manuscript.) May I? Perceval: Be my guest. But it won’t interest you. Aurelius: True, it’s really not very interesting. But it is noteworthy. You spit on everything my life is based on. You ridicule Arthur, you make fun of the Round Table. You defile yourself. Or what you used to be. We

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fought together, Perceval, side by side for the same ideals. We built the Round Table, we founded Arthur’s kingdom. We civilized the knights, we freed the serfs. We submitted ourselves to the rule of law backed by our swords. We abolished tyranny and banned war. Now we live in peace. Perceval: The peace of a police state. Aurelius: We have peace, and that’s no small achievement. Think back for a moment on all that we’ve won. Of course we couldn’t do everything, some things didn’t turn out the way we hoped. But that just means we need to keep working. Arthur’s work, the Round Table, this tranquil, blossoming land, we need to keep working, we’re still not finished. But now you stab us in the back. It’s all the more painful because you were one of us. It hurts us worse than our fiercest enemy could, because you were our friend. Percevel: It’s useless to talk about it, Aurelius. We will never agree, and I have work to do. (To Kunneware.) Look this over, please. I’m sure I’ve missed some things.—If you’ll excuse me, Aurelius. The edition has to be at the printer’s by tomorrow. And I think we’ve said everything there is to say. We’re just going in circles. Aurelius: I wish you would give up your magazine and come back to us. To the Round Table. Perceval: We have nothing else to say. Aurelius: We should give it another try. Perceval: It’s pointless. The Round Table fell apart long ago. It no longer exists. When will you finally accept that? Aurelius: I will never accept that. Maybe Lancelot has had better luck finding the Grail than we have. He’s been gone a very long time, and that gives me hope. I will never forsake the Round Table. I would just as soon commit suicide. Kunneware: The things you people say. Anyone listening to you would get sick. Or laugh. Everyone wants to kill himself. It’s just silly. Perceval: It’s over, Aurelius. When a dream stops making sense, you have to give it up or you’re done for. I haven’t betrayed the Round Table. It’s just that the old ways won’t take us any further. Aurelius: And that’s why you tear down everything we’ve built? Perceval: This is pointless. If you’ll excuse me, Aurelius. Aurelius: This makes me sick. I don’t see why Arthur tolerates such filth. (Sweeps manuscripts off the table and exits; Perceval and Kunneware pick them up and resume working.) Kunneware: Are you angry? Perceval: No. It’s just that I hate proofreading. Kunneware: You’re thinking about Aurelius, aren’t you? Perceval: Oh, of course not. An old man I offend without wishing to. A dinosaur. He had his day, and now he can’t make sense of the world. He’s a sad case, but he’s beyond our help. Kunneware: Perceval. Perceval: What is it?

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Kunneware: You’re not even looking at me. Perceval: I’m sorry. What’s the problem? Kunneware: Nothing. Nothing I could tell you about. Forgive me, I’m being stupid, I’m talking nonsense. Perceval: I really don’t understand you, Kunneware. Kunneware: I think you understand me perfectly well. I think you understand precisely what I mean. At least you once did. Perceval: Fine. And what do you expect from me? What am I supposed to say? It’s as though I had forgotten my lines. Sorry, that’s not meant to sound cynical. But I don’t know what I could say. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry about everything. Kunneware: You used to be friendlier toward me. Gentler. Or at least you acted that way. You let me think so. Perceval: I still like you a great deal, Kunneware. Kunneware: I wish I could believe you. But I can’t. Perceval: I loved you. I still love you. But I should never have told you, I should have kept it to myself. It was wrong and stupid, and I regret it. Kunneware: You never loved me, Perceval. You just used my admiration for you. You used me. Like a prostitute. Perceval: That’s not true. I still love you. But you are a young girl, and I am an old man. And somewhere, for years, my wife Blanchefleur has been waiting for me. Kunneware: Look at me, Perceval. Look me in the eye. I love you, I’m waiting for you. I want you to come to my room, to touch my throat, my breasts. I want you to come to me again. Perceval: It’s impossible. I can’t. Kunneware: If you love me… Perceval: No, I won’t come. Kunneware: Perceval, I beg you. What must I do for you to come to me again? What do you want? What do you expect from a woman? Perceval: Stop it, Kunneware. Be reasonable. Pull yourself together. We’ll talk about it another time. Agreed? Kunneware: Is it another woman? Who is she? Is she more beautiful? Is she better in bed? Enter Mordred and Jeschute. Mordred: Is that knucklehead finally gone? Jeschute: Still the impetuous one, Perceval? Or are you the victim again? What was the name of the fellow those Greek women hunted down? They tore him to pieces in the end. You’d better watch out. Perceval: Ah, Jeschute, so beautiful and so little imagination. Is that all you can think of? Jeschute: Not beautiful enough anymore, but a lot less gullible. And you, my dear, are not yet so gray that your intentions don’t shine through. Perceval: You don’t know what you’re talking about. Jeschute: But I do know how to read Kunneware’s face.—A really passionate editor, aren’t you, dearest?

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Kunneware: I think, dearest, that it’s none of your goddamn business. Jeschute: So nasty? It’s that bad, is it? (Laughs.) Isn’t it dreadfully boring, this mountain of paper? Sometimes I think that the only people who care about these frightfully clever articles are the ones who write them. And of course the writers and editors of other magazines, because it gives them something to write rebuttals to. What do you think would become of Arthur’s mighty realm if your indispensable magazine folded? Mordred: It would become even more boring. Jeschute: Perhaps you’re right. It’s always amusing to learn what new insults and taunts our clever Perceval has dreamed up. Perceval: I flatter myself that it’s more than just amusing. That I also have other readers. Jeschute: Oh, you mean Arthur and Kay? My God, you certainly do infuriate them. Each new issue puts my good Aurelius in a foul temper for a whole evening. That’s a splendid effect, of course. Perceval: I will not discuss this with you. Jeschute: Because women are idiots, right? Because women can’t think. Kunneware: That’s not fair. You can fault Perceval for a lot of things, but to pluck an accusation like that out of thin air… Jeschute: Kunneware, my dear, you surely don’t mean to educate me about Perceval. He’s attractive, attentive sometimes, even charming. But believe me, little girl, he basically despises women. And if he seems ever so nice and ever so polite, it’s nothing but condescension. Perceval: What a pile of shit. Jeschute: In that he’s just like other men. The smart ones are friendly out of arrogance, while the stupid ones are honest and unbearable. These are the enchanting alternatives we have to choose from. Perceval: A crude philosophy. And completely one-sided. Mordred: Where would I fit in? Jeschute: You? I haven’t tried to fit you in. For me you are a handsome young man, clever, sensitive, and very distrustful. We’ll see what becomes of you. I’ll observe you. What’s wrong? I haven’t done anything to you. Mordred: You’ll just observe? Jeschute: Yes, unfortunately, just observe.—You don’t need to blush, Mordred. You are the only one in this castle I have any hope for. I don’t really know why. Mordred: Oh, leave me alone. Your stories bore me. Jeschute: Did I anger you? I didn’t mean to. Mordred: Hope. What does that even mean? What hope do you have for me? I don’t even know what I could hope for. I feel paralyzed. I just know that I can’t stand things the way they are—this life, this castle. I can’t stand you. You’re finished and you don’t even know it. The things you dream about are dead and gone. You live in a dream and refuse to wake up. I detest you. But I detest myself even more, because by being here I waste what little time I have. Jeschute: Poor boy.

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Perceval:

This brings tears to my eyes. Here I am drowning in work, and Mordred is boring himself to death. It’s just a suggestion, but you could lend us a hand. Mordred: What, manufacturing waste paper?. Perceval: Or go out into the world. When I was your age I certainly wasn’t dozing by a warm fire Mordred: I know, Perceval, you were a hero. And you nearly found the Grail. I got all of that in school. But I don’t want to look for a Grail. I don’t want to find one, and I don’t want to be given one. Perceval: Who said anything about the Grail. There are plenty of places in the world where you could be useful. There are countries where people are dying like flies. And you could help them, what with your knowledge, your culture, your whole expensive education. Mordred: Sure, I know. You’re starting to sound like old Aurelius. It’s all so noble, so heroic. But I’m not a hero, and I don’t want to be one. I don’t want Arthur’s kingdom. I don’t need a throne, and I don’t want to be in a school book. Of course your generation of heroes can’t understand that. It’s not that I insist on being happy. I just don’t want to sit here and watch my life slip away. I don’t want to live for nothing. Can you understand that, Perceval? Am I asking too much? Perceval: I don’t know if it’s too much. But I do know that it’s a lot, and that very few people get even that much. And I fear that you’ve set out on the wrong path to find it. Kunneware: Exactly what do you want, Mordred? You’ve got it pretty good. You ought to be satisfied. But what about me? I’m completely alone. Perceval: Kunneware, please. Kunneware: Nobody has any hope left for me. Nobody needs me. Jeschute: I’m sure you are mistaken, child. When you are young and pretty, any number of people need you. But that will change. Radically. Mordred: Are you starting your bedroom stories again? Jeschute: Does that bother you? Mordred: Yes.—Yes, Jeschute, it does bother me. I know that everyone here sleeps with everyone else. You hardly bother to hide it. I don’t want to waste a single word on the subject. I won’t accuse anyone, I won’t moralize. But it does bother me. It’s cheap. And don’t say I’m too young to understand. I don’t think these shabby, repulsive goings-on have anything to do with age. At least I hope not. Please don’t say anything. Jeschute: (To Perceval) Will you give me a copy when it comes out? Perceval: Do you plan to read it? Jeschute: With a dedication from you, certainly. Enter Arthur, Guenevere, and Kay. Arthur: Where are you going, Mordred? Mordred: I don’t know. Arthur: Can’t you stay for a moment? Mordred: Why not. Here or there, I’m always in the way.

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Arthur: Perceval: Arthur: Perceval:

We wish to sit down, Perceval. Please clear away this paper. Is that necessary? Yes. Please don’t touch anything. Kunneware and I can take care of it. Otherwise I’ll never find anything again. Kay: Wouldn’t that be a shame. Arthur: Sit down, Guenevere. Jeschute: What’s going on? Where’s my husband? Did you send word to Aurelius? Arthur: Yes. Jeschute: One thing after another. The men are so moody today. Guenevere: Here, sit with me. Perceval: (To Kunneware) We’ll work on this some more in my room. It’s much too cramped, but down here we won’t have any peace. Kay: Damn this garbage. The table is defiled. We should have it disinfected. Perceval: Write down whatever you have to say. I promise to print it. Kay: Paper is patient. I’m not. Jeschute: So what’s this about? Kay: This is intolerable. Jeschute: (To Guenevere) Do you know what it’s about? Guenevere: Wait. You’ll see in a moment. Kay: Will you finally take some sort of action? Has it come to this, that I’m pissed on in my own house? Perceval does understand the law, doesn’t he? His little pamphlets are an infraction against order and tradition. He incites the masses, foments rebellion, challenges your authority. He wants to destroy the Round Table and our kingdom with it. Arthur: No. Kay: Don’t you see what he’s doing? Nothing is sacred to him anymore. Arthur: It will not be Perceval who destroys the Round Table, and if my kingdom should come to ruin, it would not be Perceval’s fault. Kay: Aha. So it will fall by itself? Arthur: By itself? Perhaps. I don’t know. I established the Round Table, and together we shaped this kingdom out of chaos. It was a stormy and fruitful time, and the best men fought on our side. Do you still remember all who have sat here? Gawain and Galoes, the brother of Gahrumet, the Red Knight Ither of Geheriess and Aurelius, Perceval and the freckled Feirefiss, the fierce Ironside and Lancelot, Kay and the reflective Iwein, the brawling Segramos… Mordred: We all know, father. Arthur: Yes, the whole world knows. Mordred: But it was a long time ago. Arthur: Yes, that’s all finished. Past. Mordred: Prehistoric, father. Arthur: Certainly for you, Mordred. You are so impatient. You probably regard me as a thing of the past, too. Kay: We not only have a great past, but a great future as well, if we look to our past.

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Arthur: Mordred: Jeschute: Kay:

I don’t understand what that means. He wants a new enemy, father. He wants to start a war. Is that true, Kay? I don’t want war, Arthur. I just don’t want to give up without a struggle everything we’ve fought so hard for. I want us to find our way back to our old values and our old strength. Mordred: And how do you plan to arrange that? By dragging our good old enemy Klingsor out of oblivion and calling the people to arms? Kunneware: Would someone explain what he’s talking about? Kay: Stupid boy. You’ve never seen Klingsor, you never had to fight him. What do you know of our struggle? Mordred: Everything. That’s school stuff, Grampa. Enter Aurelius. Aurelius: So here you are. What’s going on? Perceval: Arthur has something to tell us. Aurelius: And why didn’t I hear about this? Why didn’t someone notify me? Jeschute: Oh, what do you want? You made it here, didn’t you? Aurelius: Only by accident, by accident. I was just telling the carpenter that he should repair the leg on this table. And do you know how he answered me, Arthur? He said he couldn’t be two places at once, and that he’d get to it when he had time. And the whole time he sat sprawled in his chair. He never once got up. Kay: I always said it was a mistake to free the serfs. It just made them lazy and rebellious. Arthur: Of course that won’t do. I’ll speak with him myself. Aurelius: When will you speak with him? You’ve been saying that for months. Kay: He’ll promise him a raise. Arthur: Sit down. I wish to inform all of you about a letter I have received from Gawain. He has written to tell me that he is not coming back. Aurelius: Has he found the Grail? Arthur: No. He writes that he is in Merveille. At Castle Merveille, the castle of one hundred women. He no longer plans to search for the Grail, because he no longer believes in it. Therefore he is not coming back. He resigns his seat at the Round Table and asks me to relieve him of his duties. He wants to remain with the women of Merveille. Aurelius: I never dreamed. Kay: The dirty old goat! Arthur: Read the letter, Kay, before you pass judgment. Kay: I don’t have to read it. I know what I can expect from Gawain. You always preferred him, he was always your favorite. And the ladies’ favorite. This was bound to happen. You indulged him in everything, you always took him back. He never Jearned any discipline. People like that always throw in the towel. Gawain the Golden Boy. No great loss. Arthur: I will miss him greatly. The Round Table is poorer without him. Kay: Poorer, but purer.

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Arthur:

I see the table cleared. A terrifying spectacle. Like a cold wind in my face. like being alone. Kay: May I go now? Arthur: Kay, won’t you… Kay: No. I don’t need to hear any more. (Exit.) Jeschute: Where did you say the handsome Gawain is? In the castle of one hundred women? I knew that sooner or later he’d find a place to indulge his real talent. (Nudges Guenevere conspiratorially.) Aurelius: How did you know that, Jeschute? Jeschute: I just knew it. Arthur: We will never see Gawain again, and that hurts me more than I can tell. Mordred: Another one who never found the Grail. Jeschute: I’m not so sure about that, Mordred. Maybe he discovered it in Castle Merveille—under a skirt. Perceval: What else does he say? Arthur: He asks me to forgive him. He says that purely personal considerations brought him to his decision. Perceval: What else? Arthur: That’s all. Perceval: Do you mind if I look at the letter? Arthur: Why? I’ve told you everything. Perceval: I’d like to print it in my magazine. After all, it’s a rather historic document. And you can’t keep Gawain’s decision a secret even if you try. Arthur: It was very hard for Gawain to withdraw from the Round Table. You musn’t misuse his decision for your propaganda. Can’t you simply accept it as a personal matter? Perceval: I will ask Gawain’s permission to publish it. Arthur: As you like. He won’t give it. Perceval: Let’s wait and see. Arthur: Listen. (Reads.) “I implore you, Arthur, so far as it is in your power, to prevent my action from being misinterpreted. My leave-taking neither proves nor disproves anything. The truth is that I am no longer young enough to pursue my hopes groundlessly, nor yet old enough to give them up altogether.” Kunneware: That’s beautifully put. Arthur: Do you understand, Perceval, what Gawain means by that, and whom? Perceval: These are not private matters. To quit the Round Table is a political act, hence a public one. I intend to write about this. Arthur: I won’t forbid anything, but please, don’t drag his name through the dirt. Aurelius: Why not finally ban the magazine altogether. This sickening scandal sheet. Arthur: No, I won’t do that. I can’t govern by banning everything. That would be a different sort of ruin for the Round Table.—That was all that I wanted to say.—Think it over, Perceval, please. (Exit.)

110 CHRISTOPH HEIN

Guenevere: Isn’t this dreadful. It says here that scientists agree that in forty years not a single forest will be left standing on our continent. And the situation can no longer be reversed. The condition of the forests is already so disastrous that there is nothing to be done about it. This is absolutely incredible. Aurelius: Mmhm. Perceval: In forty years? Guenevere: Yes. Not one forest on the whole continent. Perceval: Everybody knows that, Guenevere. Anyway, there are other figures that look less gloomy. Guenevere: This means that there will be people living on the earth who will never see a forest, who won’t know what a green or blossoming tree is. Perceval: Yes, I imagine so. Guenevere: How can you take this so calmly? It doesn’t bother you at all. But in forty years people will ask themselves why we didn’t scream out in horror. Aurelius: Sure, sure, it is horrible. Guenevere: When the forests die out, so will the people. We can’t outlive nature, because we’re part of nature. We’ll die. Kunneware: Do you mean that seriously? Perceval: Guenevere is right. Everything points toward it. Kunneware: But then shouldn’t we… Jeschute: What is it, child? Kunneware: We ought to do something. I don’t know what. Something completely different, in order to save ourselves. Jeschute: That’s exactly what we need. But as you can see, we have other things on our minds. Guenevere: Just forty more years. It’s inconceivable. Mordred: Maybe our knights will have found the Grail by then and the problem will be solved to everybody’s satisfaction. Kunneware: Would the Grail save us? Mordred: Why not? The Grail is supposed to fix up everything. It must be some kind of miracle cure, the way everyone is so desperate to find it. Though of course, nobody has seen the Grail yet. Aurelius: You are wrong, Mordred. A great many people have seen the Grail. It’s been many years, but there was a time when men possessed the Grail. Kunneware: Then how did they manage to lose it, if it’s so important? Aurelius: People never pay attention to the things they have. Mordred: Right. You just can’t be too careful about your belongings. Kunneware: So what did it look like, the Grail? What did the people who saw it have to say about it? Aurelius: The accounts are very contradictory. Some say it is an enormous jewel, from which a wondrous light shines forth. Others say it is the Ethiopian Table of the Sun, which bedecks itself anew each night with food. Still others say that the Grail is the place where earthly paradise once stood. Others again hold that it is a place of great sinfulness, the Mountain of Venus, where men live in dancing and desire. All agree on just one

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point, that it is the most exalted and mysterious thing in the world. This explains why some have identified the Grail with God, others with Mother Mary, or more simply still, with the man or woman one loves. Mordred: I guess there’s something there to suit just about everyone. Aurelius: Yet all the accounts agree that man once possessed the Grail, but lost it through his own foolishness. Kunneware: But how are you supposed to find it when nobody knows what it looks like? Aurelius: It is said that whoever finds it will sense that he finally holds what man has yearned for through the centuries. Jeschute: My dear, it sounds like a fairy tale. I’m sorry to say it. Aurelius: You don’t need to apologize. We seek it because we have no peace with ourselves and because we don’t know what it would be like to have that peace. The Grail is peace itself. So it’s no surprise that it looks to us like a fairy tale. Perceval: Aurelius, you and I both have searched for the Grail all our lives. I’ve seen the whole world, and it’s not to be found. If it exists at all, we need to look for it here. We need to look for it in ourselves. Jeschute: Here? In ourselves? Which one of us are you going to search first? Kunneware? Aurelius: Maybe my despair is as great as yours, Perceval. I’ve given up looking for the Grail in us. I can no longer believe that something so great lies hidden inside of people. Perceval: In that case I pity you. Guenevere: (Goes to the window.) The gate is being opened. We have a visitor. Kunneware: (Follows Guenevere.) A visitor. We haven’t had many of those lately. Aurelius: Well, who is it? Guenevere: I don’t know. An old man. A man with white hair. (She screams.) He’s wearing Lancelot’s armor. But it isn’t Lancelot, it’s an old man. No, it is Lancelot. Lancelot is back. Kunneware: Are you certain? He’s so old. Aurelius: Let’s go down to greet him. Come with us, Perceval. Jeschute: Aren’t you coming, Guenevere? Guenevere: You go on ahead. I’ll be right down. All exit except Guenevere and Mordred. Mordred: Is it really Lancelot? Guenevere: Yes. Mordred: Are you certain? Why don’t you go to greet him? Maybe he’s found the Grail. Isn’t that a frightening thought? Happiness without end—what a sickening idea. Shall we go? Guenevere: He’s old. Mordred: I envy him. Guenevere: What do you mean? Do you want to be an old man? Mordred: No. But I wish my whole life didn’t lie ahead. It frightens me. Guenevere: Just be thankful you’re young. Growing old is terrible. And it’s even worse to see it happen to your friends.

112 CHRISTOPH HEIN

Mordred: Do you know the last time I was happy? When I was in my mother’s womb. I wish I were still there now. Guenevere: That’s ridiculous, Mordred. You’re a man. Act like one. Mordred: That’s just as ridiculous. You’ll be missed by Lancelot. We should go. Guenevere: Oh, Mordred, it frightens me to see him again. Act III.

Main hall at Camelot. Guenevere and Lancelot are sitting at the Round Table. Enter Aurelius. Aurelius: Guenevere, have you seen Jeschute? I’ve been looking for her everywhere. She seems to have vanished from the face of the earth. Guenevere: I haven’t seen her all day. Maybe she’s in her room. Aurelius: I already looked there. It was locked. Has she gone somewhere? Guenevere: I don’t know where she is. Aurelius: Well, someone must know where she is.—Has he still not said anything? And what are you doing in here? Talking to Lancelot? It’s senseless. Guenvere: But does everything always have to make sense? Aurelius: How’s that again?—Ah yes. I see what you’re trying to say. That’s a little too rarefied for me, my dear. I have such a simple, practical mind that I’m glad when things make sense or have a point. But have it your way, so long as I don’t have to listen. If you see Jeschute, tell her I’m looking for her. I have to dress before the Round Table meets. (Exit.) Guenevere: My poor Lancelot, my love. I’ve waited so long for you. Won’t you take me in your arms? Won’t Lancelot give his Guenevere a kiss? Do you still remember Guenevere? The woman you once loved? So you told me at least. I want to close my eyes and make myself believe that you still long for me. My poor Lancelot. Poor Guenevere. Enter Arthur with Kay. Arthur: How is he? Guenevere: I don’t know. The same. Kay: And what are you doing here? Mothering him? Really, Guenevere, you ought to think about your reputation. Arthur: Silence, Kay. There’s nothing going on here that would upset you. Kay: Nothing? Nothing really? Arthur: Silence. Guenevere: I didn’t mean to hurt you, Arthur. Arthur: I know that, my dearest.—I still haven’t seen Perceval. Kay: He’s at the printer’s. His magazine comes out today. He’ll inform us once again that Arthur’s kingdom faces imminent collapse, that our ideals are soap bubbles, and that we, the Knights of the Round Table, are either fools or scoundrels. Arthur: It’s strange. He used to be the most zealous, unyielding of knights. No one risked his life more often for the Grail. He rendered great service. The Court of Arthur would have been unthinkable without him. Kay: Treason cancels out any service.

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Arthur:

Kay: Arthur:

Not for me. Perceval has fallen into despair. His faith in the Grail is gone, he doesn’t know what to hope for or where to go. He’s completely at a loss, and he rails at us because he needs to rail at himself. Would you stop apologizing for the bastard. I feel sorry for him, Kay. (He sits down beside Guenevere.)

Enter Aurelius. Aurelius: Have any of you seen Jeschute? What’s going on? Are you hiding something from me? I find this all very odd. Well, I hope you’ll be more talkative when the Round Table meets. Kay: Aurelius, we’re not hiding anything. But why the devil is the Round Table meeting, anyway? Aurelius: I don’t understand you. We used to have regular meetings of the Round Table. We used to talk about everything. Why should it be any different now? Has something changed? Kay: What do you want to talk about? The traitor Klamides? Or Ither the dead knight? Or maybe Peredur the dead knight? About all the many dead knights? Aurelius: About the future. Kay: That’s even worse. What can we expect from Mordred and the rest of these brain-dead young people! They’ll ruin everything. The only good thing about the future is that I won’t be here to see it. Aurelius: We must talk about the future if we mean to save the Round Table. Now that Lancelot is back, we can start rebuilding our strength. A tournament, my friend, that’s what we need, a tournament. We need to talk about this. Lancelot is back. All right, so he doesn’t say anything, but that doesn’t mean he can’t ride a horse. It might even improve his chances. Let me remind you of Gramoflance, he once fell off his horse and was blind for two days. But back to what I was saying: a tournament would attract famous knights from all over the world. It would be just like the old days. Proud, courageous knights, beautiful maidens, competitions, smiling faces. Our old values. We would see some life inside these walls again. The glory of the Round Table would shine once more. And the young people. Sure, they don’t know what they want, but that’s normal. Young people never really know what they want. It’s up to us to set them on the right path, to give them a kick in the rear. The tournament will take them by surprise, it will set them on fire. It might even have an effect on Mordred, I can’t rule that out. He was a boy the last time he saw a real tournament. How is he supposed to become a knight without tournaments? Look at the playing field, there’s grass growing between the markers. In my day you would never have seen that. Think back on all the heroes who came here as our guests. The greatest names met here, with us. And look at us now. But that will change. Well, what do you think? Kay: Pardon? Maybe so. Aurelius: Haven’t you been listening? Kay: Yes, yes, I was listening, Aurelius. It’s a lovely dream.

114 CHRISTOPH HEIN

Aurelius:

A dream? Just exactly what is that supposed to mean? What do you have to say about it, Arthur? A tournament, after all—you can’t talk about that as though it were just anything.—Why is it just a dream? Kay: Take it up with Lancelot there. He’ll explain it to you. Aurelius: With Lancelot? But Lancelot isn’t even speaking to…Aha. Right. Now I understand you, Kay.—If you see Jeschute, I’m looking for her. I’ll go change for the Round Table. (Exit.) Arthur: Have you noticed anything? Any change? Guenevere: No, nothing. He’s been like this for a week now. Arthur: You should be easier on yourself, my love. Lancelot is beyond your help. Guenevere: I’m staying here. Arthur: But you can’t sit here by Lancelot day and night. Kay: No, that certainly won’t do. Guenevere: I don’t think this concerns you, Kay. (She stands to go.) Enter Kunneware and Perceval. Kunneware: Where are you going? Are you running away from me? Guenevere: Where did you get such an idea, child? Kunneware: Nobody will speak to me. Everybody is avoiding me. What’s happening around here? Lancelot is finally back, but none of you seems very happy about it. We used to have a big celebration when a knight came home, but now everybody gets depressed. Lancelot is alive, isn’t he? We ought to be happy. Guenevere: No doubt you’re right, Kunneware. He’s alive, what more can we ask. Kunneware: Then why are you sad? Guenevere: I don’t know. I can’t explain it to you. Kunneware: I can’t figure it out. This is beyond me. Guenevere: It’s better that way, Kunneware. Kunneware: What does that mean? You think I’m just a bimbo, don’t you? Guenevere: No. Kunneware: Well that’s how it sounded. It sounded very condescending. Guenevere: I’m sorry, child. I didn’t mean it that way. Kunneware: Then let’s just drop it. And stop calling me “child.” I’m a grown woman. Guenevere: And a very beautiful one. Kunneware: All of you are acting strange. None of the men will say a word, they’re all down in the dumps. Meanwhile here’s Lancelot. And Perceval is in a bad mood, too, even though his magazine came out today. Kay: Here we go again. Have you prepared some more wisdom for us? Enter Jeschute and Mordred. Perceval: This is a very interesting issue. I demonstrate conclusively where the Grail can be found. A subscription to my magazine could save the Knights of the Round Table a lot of work and wasted time. Kay: All right, then, where is the Grail? Perceval: Among other places, somewhere in your own mind, Kay. Kay: I’d agree there’s more lurking there than in yours.

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Arthur:

You’re not entirely wrong, Perceval. Everything or almost everything begins with our own minds. Perceval: I’ll give you a copy, Arthur. It might help you come to a decision. Mordred: Why, Perceval, your magazine must be the new Grail, spreading joy to the afflicted, right? Arthur: Your husband is looking for you, Jeschute. Jeschute: Yes, I heard. Aurelius always looks for me in exactly the wrong places. He’s done that all his life. Maybe it means something. (To Guenevere.) Did he say anything? Guenevere: No. Jeschute: Lancelot still looks good. Guenevere: It’s only been two years since he left us. He was still a young man. Is he really just two years older? Jeschute: It happens over night. My Aurelius was never an Adonis, but he wasn’t always an old man. Perceval: Maybe my work doesn’t mean much, Mordred, maybe it won’t change anything. But what are you doing? Nothing, literally nothing. Will you tell me what good that does? I’d much rather show some backbone and carry on with my trivial work. Mordred: Why so modest? Everyone says your magazine is very bold, very courageous. Kunneware: Don’t be so nasty. Perceval really is brave. And he’s doing something. Perceval: There’s no need for sarcasm. At least I’m not a coward. Mordred: I didn’t mean it that way, Perceval. It’s just that I can’t believe that your work means anything. It’s wasted effort. Perceval: And you of all people can know that? Mordred: Of course not. It’s just my opinion. Perceval: Your opinions will interest me when you do something about them. When for once in your life you accomplish something. Jeschute: Maybe you should compete some time in a tournament, Mordred. You need to break a few bones to qualify as a man. Mordred: And what’s with this guy? He’s been sitting like that for a week now. Kay: Are you referring to Lancelot? Mordred: I’m referring to this living corpse. Is he going to be a permanent fixture? Kay: He is a knight, Mordred. He is entitled to sit at this table. Arthur: Mordred, don’t you remember Lancelot? He took you falcon hunting. He taught you how to snare rabbits. Have you forgotten all that? You rode on his horse, you carried his tournament banner. Mordred: That must have been a very long time ago, good father. Arthur: I admit, it’s been a few years. Mordred: Now I remember. (To Lancelot.) You’re a knight, aren’t you? You are one of those Grail-hunting dinosaurs. Don’t you read the papers? The Grail is extinct and so are the dinosaurs. You’ve outlived your usefulness, knight. Kay: This is Perceval’s doing.—You green youth. You unworthy son of our mighty king Arthur. You lout, you idiot, you scum, you—you sissy!

116 CHRISTOPH HEIN

Mordred: Arthur: Kay: Mordred: Kay: Mordred: Kay: Mordred: Kay: Mordred: Kay: Mordred:

Isn’t it the truth, Kay—these young people. Kay, what is the meaning of this? I have insulted you. You must challenge me. Challenge you? To what? To a duel. Oh, but Kay, this sun is unbearable. It’s too hot for a duel. Sun? What sun? All right, then, there’s too little sun for a duel. I have given you offense. You have to challenge me. Offense? I didn’t hear a thing. What did you do, call me a knight? You! A knight! You mollycoddled, good-for-nothing… All right then. If you didn’t accuse me of being a knight, I’m not offended. Guenevere: What is the meaning of this, Kay? Kay: I’ll kill him, Arthur. I’ll kill him. I’ll destroy him before he can destroy your kingdom.—I challenge you, Mordred. Act like a man and present yourself. Mordred: I’m not interested in fighting you. That sort of stupidity bores me. You’re in the wrong century, Kay. Kay: Act like a man, Mordred. Present yourself. Mordred: No. Kay: But that won’t do! You can’t just say “no,” you have to fight me. You have no choice. Mordred: But I do have a choice, Kay. I can simply go to my room, read something, have a beer, and forget all this crap. (Exit.) Arthur: Mordred, wait.—You really wanted to kill him. Kay: He left me standing here. Did all of you see that? Nothing means anything to him. He just left me standing. Oh, Arthur, what will become of this world after we leave it? Arthur: You wanted to kill him, Kay. He’s still practically a boy.—Come back, Mordred. (Exit, in pursuit.) Kay: Mordred’s no boy. And he’ll be the end of us, of the Knights of the Round Table, of the Grail. I see it all. I see it all in ruins. Jeschute: Such gloomy predictions, Kay. Are you unhappy that Lancelot is back? Kay: No, of course not. Jeschute: But you were hoping he’d bring good news? Kay: I don’t think I did hope that. Jeschute: That’s odd, Kay. Have you lost faith in the Grail, too? That will certainly be a blow to Arthur, and my good Aurelius will be thunderstruck. Kay: Nonsense. Of course I believe in the Grail. And I don’t just believe in it, I know it exists. I admit that we may never find it. The Grail is human happiness, paradise on earth. All of us spend more time unhappy than happy. But each of us has been happy at least once, even if just for a moment, and that brief moment of happiness proves that the Grail exists, and that it can be found here on earth. Perhaps we’ll never

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find it, never discover where it’s hidden. But if we give up looking, then we’ll be unhappy all of the time. Jeschute: Very moving. That’s comforting, somehow. Perceval: Yes, like a sermon. But the reasoning is a bit strained. Jeschute: But to spend your whole life searching for the one thing you know you’ll never find—not everyone is up to that. Kay: Dear Jeschute, I assure you that no one is up to that. It’s no fun for any of us. But when we give up on the Grail, when we stop searching, that will be the end, despair, chaos. We remain human only so long as we seek the Grail. Jeschute: Go and seek wherever you like, as long as you go. Have I understood you correctly? Kay: Yes. Jeschute: I’m tired just thinking about it.—What you’re telling me is awful, do you know that? Kay: Then forget about it. Jeschute: How can I forget about it? All along I’ve thought that at least you and Arthur and Lancelot and of course my Aurelius still believed in the Grail. Kay: And we do. Jeschute: Sure, but what does that amount to? Suddenly it’s just idle talk, some sort of pie-in-the-sky affair, a mirage. Kay: Why are you upset, Jeschute? You’ve always laughed at us. You never believed any of it. So why are you acting now like you’ve lost God knows what? Jeschute: I can’t explain it, Kay. It’s true that I never believed in the Grail. At least I was never as sure as all of you. But it was always comforting to know that you believed in it. Your Grail never interested me, I never believed you were anywhere near finding it. And I always found it stupid and infuriating that so many knights, so many young and handsome men had to die looking for it. But now you tell me that even you can’t believe in the Grail anymore… Kay: Nonsense, Jeschute. Of course the Grail exists. I’m just not certain we’ll ever find it. Jeschute: It was so nice to think at least that the rest of you were certain. That helped me a lot. It was like a tiny island a long, long way off. I always knew it was out of reach for me, but it seemed that there must be hope as long as you clung to it so stubbornly. I hoped against my better judgment. Now it has become much harder for me. Kay: Does that mean that you don’t know yourself what you really believe? Jeschute: You’re missing the point. And I can’t explain it to you any better. Your faith was important to me. I suspected that Perceval was right, that it was all hopeless. But that’s so dreadfully depressing. It’s dreadful to live with doubt and nothing else. Do you understand, Guenevere? Guenevere: Huh? Yes, it is dreadful. Perceval: You amaze me, Jeschute. I always thought… Jeschute: Would you give me a cigarette?

118 CHRISTOPH HEIN

Guenevere: You’ve gotten so worked up, dear, that I hardly recognize you. You always seem so self-assured. Jeschute: Well, that’s good to hear. I’m anything but self-assured, Guenevere, but I don’t suppose I have to walk around with a sign announcing it. And what Kay just said was like a punch in the belly. A gigantic, bottomless hole has opened up, and we will fall and fall and fall. Guenevere: What’s so terrible about all this? Whether the men find the Grail or not, how does that change anything for you? For you or for me? It wouldn’t make them any more agreeable. Our lives are passing, and their lives are passing, and suddenly we’ll be old people whose time and youth have slipped away. Irretrievably. We’ll have to say: That was my life. Then our time will be up. And what will we have to show for it? Was it worthwhile? Were we happy at least? It scares me, Jeschute. We will be old people soon, very soon. It all goes by so quickly. Kunneware: What can I say? When you were my age, there used to be some life around here. I remember it clearly. Every day we had visitors, the whole castle was jammed with people. And now it’s a mausoleum. Everybody rails about the past and all the dead heroes. I don’t know whether you like living this way, but I find it repulsive. I feel like I’m withering without ever having bloomed. And there’s nobody to talk to. Everybody is either arguing or complaining. Have you ever heard anyone laugh around here? Jeschute: You are right, my child. It would have been comforting for us if our illusions had lasted at least until the grave. I don’t say that the Grail has to exist, but as long as I’m still alive I’d like to believe just a little. These gorgeous soap-bubbles should have lasted just a little longer. A mistake this big is easier to live with after you’re dead. Guenevere: And for now? Jeschute: I don’t know, Guenevere, I don’t know what we do from here. It was so easy when we were young. Everything was simple and certain. Then we grew smarter and smarter until we didn’t understand anything at all. Enter Aurelius. Aurelius: Where’s Arthur? I believe he announced a meeting of the Round Table. And where have you been, Jeschute? Jeschute: I’m here. Aurelius: Yes, but where were you? Your room was locked and I looked for you everywhere. And where’s Arthur? And Mordred’s missing, too. Kunneware: Wasn’t Mordred with you, with you and Jeschute? Aurelius: He wasn’t with me. Kunneware: But I saw him go in. Aurelius: He wasn’t with me. Was he with you, Jeschute? Jeschute: I don’t know what you’re talking about. Aurelius: This is strange. Enter Arthur and Mordred.

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Arthur:

Mordred: Arthur:

Kay: Mordred: Arthur:

Perceval: Arthur:

Kay: Arthur: Perceval: Arthur: Lancelot: Aurelius: Arthur: Lancelot: Aurelius: Lancelot:

Aurelius: Lancelot: Aurelius: Lancelot: Kay:

Please be seated. There aren’t so many of us now. Come, Guenevere, sit down. And you, Mordred, please. Lancelot is back, and I have called the Round Table together. I’m not a Knight of the Round Table, Father. You will be, Mordred. Sit down. You will be a Knight of the Round Table. And you will sit at my place and have a kingdom, which will be your kingdom, to rule. God help us. I can’t imagine sitting here my whole life, Father. I don’t want any of this. As long as mankind survives, the Grail will be sought. One day you will understand me, and then you will begin your search. You may have better luck than we, or you may waste your life chasing an illusion. Either way, you will have no choice, you will have to take your turn and start searching. Maybe he’ll be smarter than we’ve been, Arthur. Maybe these young people will avoid some of our blunders. I hope for that too. But the Grail is not a blunder, Perceval. Only an animal can get by without it, because animals don’t know that death awaits them. Our mortality compels us to seek the Grail. Our knowledge of death makes us uneasy and compels us to set out and begin searching.—The Round Table is greatly changed. Now we have women and young people seated among us. Just a few years ago that would have been unthinkable. But everything changes, and that is for the best. You’ll still be saying that when goats and donkeys are sitting here. Lancelot is back. And it appears that he hasn’t found the Grail, either. Lancelot, please, speak to us. Or he did find it, and it left him speechless. Lancelot, speak. The Round Table waits. I have nothing to say. Hey, since when is he talking again? Nobody tells me anything. You were gone from us a long time, Lancelot. Speak. I sought the Grail, I did not find it. I have nothing to tell you. Yes, yes, we assumed that much. But what else is there? Have you heard anything from Klingsor? Is he preparing to fight again? I don’t know. I searched and searched. I made inquiries, I followed the least clue. If the Grail existed on earth, I would have found it. I asked about it everywhere, but nobody had ever seen it. I crossed every continent, and it simply isn’t to be found. I realize it’s not easy to find. It doesn’t exist at all. Possibly in the course of time it turned to dust. That’s nonsense, Lancelot. The Grail is everlasting. Or else it’s no longer on earth. Or it’s really just an idea. Everlasting, but just an idea. Have you been infected by Perceval? Are you becoming another doubter?

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Lancelot: Kay:

Lancelot: Arthur: Lancelot: Arthur: Lancelot:

Arthur: Lancelot: Arthur:

Lancelot: Arthur:

Kay: Lancelot: Kay: Lancelot: Aurelius: Lancelot:

Kay: Lancelot:

Kay: Lancelot: Arthur:

You haven’t gone looking in a long time, Kay. It wears you down to be forever seeking something you know you won’t find. I haven’t found the Grail, and you haven’t found it. That much is clear, but nothing more. When the time is ripe, a new Knight of the Round Table will find it. Then we will finally reach our goal. Why isn’t Gawain here? Hasn’t he come back yet? He isn’t coming back. He wrote me that he is at Castle Merveille and plans to stay there. The castle of one hundred women? Yes. Strange. None of it makes any sense. I was gone only two years, but everything has changed. What happened? Why isn’t Gawain coming back to Camelot? He no longer believes in the Grail, either. He has given up the quest. Gawain too? It was a beautiful dream, he wrote, but it was out of touch with the world. He is making peace with the world, to have some peace for himself. In the castle of one hundred women. Yes. He wants to cultivate the land, to plow and harvest, he wants to live with women and have children, and maybe some day—if he’s lucky —to die quietly under an apple tree he himself has planted. He wants to live as a farmer, because everything else is pointless. Above all he wants never again to pick up a book. Books, he writes, have poisoned him. They planted beautiful dreams in his heart, delusive fairy tales which he wasted his life chasing. That miserable traitor. Can’t you sympathize with him? No. Can you? Oh yes, Kay. What does that mean? Do you mean that you too… No, it shouldn’t mean anything at all. I just said that I can sympathize with him. It’s all very hard, Kay. When you chase after an idea for years on end without coming the least bit closer, that can be very depressing. We have only a small allotment of life at our disposal, yet we crowd far too many hopes into it. More than something so fragile and brief can accommodate. What are you trying to say, Lancelot? Do you believe in the Grail or not? I don’t know. That’s not a question I can answer. I can’t say yes and I can’t say no. Here inside of me there’s only silence. And if you can’t grasp that, Kay, if you can’t understand Gawain, you must be a totally callous man. So that’s how it is. I see. Yes, that’s how it is. But I doubt you’ve understood anything at all. Lancelot! Kay! Please, calm down. Every human achievement has been called into question at some point, everything, every idea, every invention, every human institution. What appeared to us certain and

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secure has suddenly turned very dubious. That’s only frightening for the moment, and it will help us to move forward. It’s not just an end, it’s the beginning of something new. I foresaw this when I founded my kingdom. The confusion we feel right now shouldn’t frighten us, it should give us hope. Kay: That sounds downright heroic, Arthur, but meanwhile your kingdom is falling apart. Arthur: It’s not falling apart, it’s changing. Perceval: Right. The Round Table has turned into a bunch of sullen old men. We need young people. Aurelius: I’m not so sure of that. Just look at Mordred. What sort of young person is that? A blabbermouth unwilling to assume any responsibility. Kunneware: Stop it, Aurelius, be quiet. You’re starting to argue again. Kay: Arthur’s kingdom will no longer be recognizable if it falls into the hands of people like Mordred. Arthur: You can’t prevent that from happening. No one can. Mordred and all the rest who come after us will do as they please with what we leave them. Kay: They will destroy the kingdom. Arthur: We can’t hold out forever. We’re old men. Kay: We must exterminate them. It’s a choice between them or the Grail. Arthur: Are you saying we should kill all of our young people? Kay: Either them or the Grail. Guenevere: You’re out of your mind, Kay. Kay: You must kill your son, Arthur. Kill Mordred or the kingdom is doomed. Arthur: Kay, for the first time in my life I am afraid of another man. Because I know you mean it. Kay: Yes, Arthur, either them or the Grail. Arthur: If you kill Mordred and the others, the Grail will be finally lost to us forever. Aurelius: I can’t bear to think what will happen to the Round Table once we are gone. Kay is absolutely right about that. They’ll demolish everything. Mordred: That would hardly be necessary. Guenevere: What would happen, then, Mordred? What will you do? Mordred: I don’t know. Something or other. Aurelius: You’re not even interested, are you? Mordred: There you have it. Aurelius: But it should interest you. Mordred: I know that, but it doesn’t help. Aurelius: I pity your father, Mordred. Jeschute: My God, why don’t you leave the boy alone. Do you all have to keep picking on him? Mordred: My father. Well, I pity my father, too.—Don’t worry, Kay, I won’t destroy your precious kingdom. I won’t even touch it, because I don’t want it. You can keep it, Kay. Kay: Listen to that, Arthur, that’s your son.

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Mordred:

Aurelius: Mordred:

Aurelius: Mordred:

Arthur: Mordred: Arthur: Mordred: Arthur: Mordred: Lancelot: Kay: Lancelot: Kay: Lancelot: Aurelius:

Lancelot: Aurelius:

Lancelot: Aurelius: Lancelot: Aurelius:

There’s no need for you to do me in, Kay. Arthur’s kingdom, the Grail, the Siege Perilous, none of it interests me. I don’t want any part of it. And I certainly don’t plan to wander the face of the earth as a knight errant in pursuit of a delusion that nobody believes in, not even you. I don’t want to be a Knight of the Round Table, the seats are much too uncomfortable, and the table itself is a monstrosity. I’m also not going to wait around for the Elect One to show up, that’s just another delusion, a fairy tale. And so is this great, high chair on which only he can sit. Then sit on it, if you dare. Just try it, it will seize you and burn you to a crisp like all the others. This chair is as harmless as only a piece of furniture can be. I’ve sat on it often enough, good Aurelius. It never did anything to me. All of my classmates have sat on it, too, even the most timid. And we all survived. Is that true, Mordred? You can sit on it with an easy mind. And then you can say to yourself that you are the Elect One the Knights of the Round Table have been waiting for. What do you want to do, Mordred? I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll join Gawain in the castle of one hundred women and help him plant trees. And the kingdom, Mordred? Will it all have been for nothing? It’s your kingdom, Father, you built it. I don’t want it. But we built it and defended it for you, boy. I don’t want it. Gawain is planting trees and tilling the soil. A pleasant occupation. You can see what you’ve accomplished, and all of it’s good for something. A farmer, Lancelot! How can a knight become a farmer. It’s disgusting. He’ll be contented, I think. No, he will not be. He’ll very soon be discontented. Planting trees isn’t enough for a knight. It’s enough for a human being. Do you really believe that? Why don’t you take a rest. In a few days you’ll see the world differently. You must guard against doubt, Lancelot. Doubt is a fearful poison, it ruins the mind faster than liquor. Beware of it. And beware of Perceval and Mordred. Would you like a drink, Lancelot? No thanks. This was distilled right here in the castle, my friend. By one of the carpenters. It’s not bad. He uses only the best plums in it. They won’t do their assigned work no matter how often we talk to them. But they do make brandy. Try some, at least. I don’t care to, thanks. You used to appreciate a drop now and then. I can’t afford to anymore. Ah, I see. What is it? The stomach? The bladder?

THE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE 123

Lancelot: Aurelius: Lancelot: Aurelius: Jeschute: Aurelius: Jeschute: Aurelius: Jeschute: Arthur: Lancelot: Arthur:

Lancelot: Arthur:

Lancelot: Arthur: Lancelot:

Arthur: Kay: Mordred: Arthur:

My head, Aurelius. Your head? Yes. I’ve developed a fear of this stuff. I’m afraid of being ruined by it. Sure, you have to use it in moderation. Here’s to your health. Don’t drink any more, Aurelius. It’s not good for you. Yeah, yeah. Every night. Do you realize how unpleasant it is to sleep every night with a drunken corpse? You’re repeating yourself. Why did you lock me out, Jeschute? Didn’t you hear me calling? No. Things have changed a great deal, Lancelot. Yes. It’s frightening. Don’t worry. Even I was puzzled and desperate for a while, but that’s over now. Everything changes. Things have not turned out as we expected or hoped. Perhaps we can be glad we won’t live to see the future. But even Mordred will need to seek the Grail. If he wants to live, he’ll need to seek it, because the Grail is life itself. I have just returned from a long journey, Arthur. If I thought that that journey was my life, then I’d be as desperate as Gawain and Perceval. Don’t worry, Lancelot. We haven’t found the Grail, but we have gotten closer to it. The Round Table hasn’t been in vain. We’ve achieved a lot. I’m not so sure anymore, Arthur… You were gone a long time. You’re tired from your journey. My God, Arthur, do you realize that the people out there don’t care any more about the Grail or the Round Table? They used to admire us, seek our advice, a subject was proud if we required a place for the night. Nowadays they laugh when they see a Knight of the Round Table. They would spit on the ground when I tried to tell them about the Grail. If I mentioned Arthur’s kingdom, they screamed insults and threw stones at me. They no longer accept our legitimacy or our dream. Beat it, they say, we’ve heard too much already, life is hard enough as it is. The people regard the Knights of the Round Table as fools, idiots, and crooks. Did you know this, Arthur? I know it, Lancelot. We gave them paradise on earth. And a clubbing if they weren’t grateful. We haven’t found the Grail, and it seems to me that many of us have stopped looking for it. It may be a task beyond our powers. But if we give up on the Grail, we give up on ourselves. What tortures and bewilders us now is a hunger for hope. This hunger consumes us, unsettles us, plunges some of us into despair and resignation, paralyzes us and turns us against ourselves. We must seek to satisfy this hunger, but that will require effort. The ground has been snatched from under us and we are hanging over the abyss. We will have to win back the

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ground we have lost piece by piece. It will mean endless work, but we are equal to it. Aurelius: You saw him go in, Kunneware? Kunneware: What do you mean? Aurelius: You saw Mordred enter our room? Kunneware: It seemed like it. I’m not exactly sure. Aurelius: You locked yourself in. I knocked on the door. Why did you lock yourself in, Jeschute? Jeschute: Do you really want to know? Aurelius: Yes, I would like to know. I would like to know why you locked the door and whether Mordred was really inside with you. Guenevere: Aurelius, please just be quiet. I will go mad if you continue to speak in this tone. Aurelius: I’m sorry, but I believe I’m entitled to ask. Guenevere: But not in this tone and not now. Lancelot is back, and we are finally sitting together at this table again. You don’t have to start on such subjects right now. Aurelius: Answer me, Jeschute. Did you lock yourself in with Mordred? Jeschute: Yes. Aurelius: This is degrading. This is humiliating. And you seem to be proud of yourself. Kay: Are you really surprised, Aurelius? Aurelius: You will excuse me. (Exit.) Jeschute: (To Kunneware.) You are a stupid little goose. Kunneware: But I just…I was only… Jeschute: You certainly were, and a fine job of it. Exit Kunneware wailing. Kay: That was completely uncalled for, Jeschute. You didn’t have to upset the child as well. It’s already bad enough the way you behave with your husband. Jeschute: It’s none of your damned business, Kay. Kay: (To Mordred.) I thought you regarded yourself as something special. You always walk around with your nose in the air. I thought you looked down on such escapades. Jeschute: Leave the boy out of this, Kay. Kay: He’s already in it, Jeschute, thanks to you. Jeschute: I’m not in the mood to take your impudence. Guenevere: I’ll go with you, Jeschute. Sitting through this has given me a headache. Forgive me, Arthur, but all this spitefulness makes me sick. (Exit with Jeschute.) Lancelot: This really is hard to bear. Since coming back, I’ve heard nothing but complaining, arguing, bickering. We used to sit at this table and hammer out plans of action. We were in high spirits, and we trusted the future. There was so much we wanted to do. Arthur: Yes, it was clear and simple back then. We knew what had to be done. It was a time of great and fierce battles in which many knights fell. Yet

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Perceval: Arthur: Perceval: Kay: Arthur:

Lancelot:

Perceval:

Arthur:

Kay: Arthur:

Kay:

Arthur: Kay: Arthur: Lancelot:

Arthur:

those losses never shook our resolve, we were sure of our mission. The immortal dead made us invincible. So many battles were left to be fought, so many privations lay ahead, yet we never suffered a moment of doubt. The shadow of our dream took on clear outlines and our unwavering efforts culminated in the birth of a new kingdom. That was ages ago, Arthur. Certainly, but it’s no less true. What good does it do us now? It would help us all a great deal if we would remember our duty to the Round Table. Certainly, Kay, the past belongs to us, but that says nothing of the future. Everything has changed. And it’s better that way. We must make way for the new. And when we do, the Grail will be almost within our grasp. And we will laugh at ourselves, at our despair. We will wonder how we could ever have been so bewildered. Keep talking, Arthur. For two years I’ve roamed the world. I pursued our dream, but in the end I felt like a donkey going round in circles. When I listen to you, I almost believe that I just needed to hold my head higher in order to go on. Keep talking. Yes, it sounds comforting. But unfortunately, lovely words aren’t going to help us, Arthur. You should first of all recognize that we have failed. The Round Table is a pile of splinters. Good night. (Exit.) (After Perceval is gone) Yes, Perceval, we have failed. But if the Grail slipped beyond our reach, that only means we need to find fresh, new ways of approaching it. And if we can’t do it, Mordred will. What are you getting at, Arthur? I don’t understand you anymore. Are you abandoning the Round Table? I don’t know, Kay. What do you think? If this table becomes a hindrance to finding the Grail, wouldn’t it be better to smash it? Or at least to accept the fact the those who come after us may not care to sit down on these old chairs. Ah! Now I think I understand. And the Siege Perilous, the place of the Elect One, you think that’s just another piece of wood, too? In that case it’s no surprise that women and children can sit on it unharmed. Because when nobody believes in it, it no longer has any power. Then anyone can sit on it with impunity. Then you’ve destroyed the Round Table once and for all. But in that case I set no value on my place at this table, since it makes no difference at all where I sit. Stay with us, Kay. I see no reason to, Arthur. (Exit.) What about you, Lancelot? I already knew the answer a moment ago, while you were speaking. It’s hard to keep a clear purpose in mind when all you have left is some ruined fragments, and the only sure thing is a vague hope. (As he moves to go, he knocks over the table leg.) Leave it there. (Exit Lancelot.) It’s been a long time since we sat here together. I mean, you and I.

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Mordred: You were always so busy. Arthur: And you no longer needed me. But let’s forget about that. I used to hope I could make things easier for you. I never wanted you to look at me as a role model, but more as an old friend. I’m afraid it hasn’t worked out that way, has it? Mordred: We see things differently, Father. Arthur: Yes. I think you’re right. Tell me something about yourself. I know so little. Mordred: I’ve always admired you. Arthur: What, really? Mordred: It took courage to tell the others you didn’t know what to do. Arthur: It was hard for me. Mordred: You’re always supposed to have the answers, right? Arthur: They expect so much from me. Mordred: And you really believe there will be a newer, better way? Arthur: Yes, Mordred. But we won’t find it. You’ll have to look for it. Mordred: Kay will do me in. Arthur: You have to understand, he’s an old man. It’s very hard for any of us to accept the things you want. We don’t understand you. We don’t understand what you want. Mordred: I don’t know that myself. But all this, I don’t want this. Arthur: It’s not a bad table. I’m glad to sit at it. Do you really plan to smash it? Mordred: I plan to move it to a museum. Arthur: Yes, that’s what I thought. And will that help you? Will that make anything clearer? Mordred: It will make room. Breathing space, Father. Arthur: I’m scared, Mordred. You’ll destroy so much. Mordred: Yes, Father. Applications for license to perform The Knights of the Round Table should be addressed to Gustav Kiepenheuer Bühnenvertriebs GmbH, Schweinfurthstrasse 60, D-14195 Berlin, Germany.

Introduction to Jochen Berg’s Strangers in the Night Marc Silberman

Jochen Berg’s play Strangers in the Night is one of the first post-Wall plays written by a GDR playwright and dealing specifically with the collapse of the GDR and German reunification. Berg’s plays went unproduced in the GDR despite his status as a house playwright for the Deutsches Theater. His latest play, which appears to be a transitional work, employs the figure of Siegfried to explore various betrayals and transformations connected with political events in the two Germanies and the aftermath of 1989. GDR director Frank Castorf has staged the work at the Volksbühne in East Berlin. KEY WORDS: Berg, Müller, Hein, Braun, Siegfried, Benjamin, Castorf The events of Fall 1989 displaced the yearning for revolution from the stage onto the streets in the GDR. In a literal sense writers, actors, directors, and stage technicians made an important contribution to the political opposition during the crucial month of October 1989. In a society marked by restricted public communication, their access to telephones and to a relatively protected social space within the theater houses provided an invaluable resource for organizing the protest movement. The prestige of the theater in the GDR, linked to the public expression of political and social critique by dramatists like Heiner Müller, Volker Braun, and Christoph Hein, peaked in the mass demonstration on November 4th at the East Berlin Alexanderplatz that was largely organized by theater people. The displacement from the stage to the streets had another literal dimension as well: the audience exited from the theaters. The sublimation of political energy into the enormous creativity characteristic of forty years of GDR theater found a more direct outlet in the street protests and in the unexpected acceleration of political change which ultimately led to the collapse of the government and the opening of the borders. Jochen Berg’s Strangers in the Night (Fremde in der Nacht) is the first play from post-Wall Germany (indeed one of the very few at all) that reflects on the immediate impact of the revolutionary events. Berg began writing on New Year’s Eve 1989, intrigued by the report about a young man who fell to his death from the scaffolding at the Brandenburg Gate, and completed the text a year and a half later. The material

128 MARC SILBERMAN

could have been drawn from newspaper headlines and television reports during those momentous months of change in 1990: colonizing yuppies from the West, a recalcitrant Socialist Party member bunkered in his cellar, an East German soldier who exchanges his uniform for that of the West, the arrest of an informer for the security police (Stasi), the memories of an Olympic athlete, the desperate threats of a West German terrorist protected by the Stasi, etc. Like graffiti sprayed on a wall, the scenes present brief but biting commentaries on the expectations and illusions accompanying the process of political transformation. Jochen Berg was born in 1948 and raised in Bleicherode in the East-West German border area of the Harz Mountains. His musician-father, during the war a member of a military band stationed in Italy, was seriously injured in the battle of Montecasino and returned home maimed to work in a potassium mine. Berg grew up in an apolitical household, fascinated by American comic books and Western literature. He was trained first as a mechanic and then as a medical orderly, moving to East Berlin in the late sixties where he found an intellectual home in the literary circle around the much older poet Erich Arendt (1903–1984). With a recommendation from Brecht’s widow, Helene Weigel (the manager of the Berliner Ensemble after Brecht’s death in 1956), he was accepted into the acting class at the State Theater Academy, which he completed in 1971. Although he never acted on stage, the experience provided Berg with the opportunity he needed to establish himself in the theater. Based on his first literary texts—prose, poetry, film scripts, short dramas—he was commissioned by the venerable Deutsches Theater in East Berlin to write plays for them, and from 1974 until 1990 he worked under contract with the theater as its house author. Jochen Berg belongs to the third generation of GDR dramatists in a genealogy described most succinctly by the names of Bertolt Brecht and Heiner Müller. His early plays (Dave, 1972; Change, 1973; The Axe, 1974) addressed topical issues of alienated youth in the GDR. Strephart (1975), a comedy set in the years prior to the French Revolution, introduced a shift to a historical ambiance that led in the late seventies to a series of classical plays and adaptations: Niobe, Klytaimnestra, Iphigenia, and Niobe at Sipylos. During the eighties Berg collaborated with various East German composers in writing a series of short operas, including Angels, which premiered at the Castillo Center (Lehmann College) in New York City. Despite Berg’s official status as a playwright attached to one of the most prestigious GDR theaters, not one of his plays was produced in East Germany. Even when masked as historical or classical adaptation, the texts’ contemporary relevance escaped no one, in particular none of the cultural functionaries responsible for the theaters. The melancholic characters are outsiders, banished from home, betrayed by the powerful, obsessed with revenge; the themes concern the memory of unfulfilled dreams, the sorrow at being abandoned, the desire to forget. Briefly a member of the official Writers’ Union, Berg was excluded as a “Western,” “decadent” author. The production of Dave at the Schwerin Theater was cancelled before final rehearsals. Strephart was scheduled for the 1976/77 season but never even went into production after the controversial expatriation of poet Wolf Biermann in Fall 1976. Similarly, his rewrite of Euripides’ Iphigenia (In the Land of the Taureans) was supposed to have been staged by Alexander Lang at the Deutsches Theater but was then dropped from the season under pressure from the Cultural Ministry. Berg’s breakthrough came finally in West Germany with the staging in the early eighties of his classical

BERG’S STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT 129

Tetralogy in theaters in Stuttgart and Wuppertal. Strangers in the Night was premiered appropriately at the Volksbühne in East Berlin on November 9, 1992, to commemorate the third anniversary of the opening of the Berlin Wall. Berg’s postsocialist drama reveals traces of a transitional work. The central metaphor is death, an articulation of the experience of revolution as the obsessively repeated death of the old that precedes the birth of the new. The main character, whose name Siegfried resonates with the bloody Nibelung myth of familial betrayal and parricide, is killed by his father, by a general, by a Stasi officer, and by his own hand. Thematically the play revolves around the various obstacles to revolutionary transformations, the old habits and ways of thinking that paralyze change. Mirrors, somnambulism, and masturbation are just some of the tropes that describe this entropy, while the image of a slow-motion, almost catatonic fall in the fourth scene projects (like Walter Benjamin’s angel of history) a symbolic trajectory. The text’s apodictic declarations and truisms are formulated with the pathos of dignified, classical diction, and at the same time its laconic structure resembles a collage of operatic arias. Yet the lack of dramatic unity helps avoid a nostalgic image of the past and propels what could be understood as an elegy for the GDR into the domain of an acerbic commentary on the corruption of socialist utopias. Frank Castorf, the “enfant terrible” among GDR theater directors, staged Berg’s play in his idiosyncratic signature style, working against the grain of this Teutonic tragedy with his eclectic ironizing. He tore apart and rearranged the sequence of five already loosely outlined acts plus prologue and epilogue into a cabaret-like review about the GDR. He added new texts, songs, and music (e.g. Frank Sinatra endlessly repeating a motif from his song “Strangers in the Night”) and included mimed acts, gags, and slapstick numbers (e.g. with former Party chairman Erich Honecker and Stasi boss Erich Mielke). The production took place in the famous Babylon Cinema, built in the twenties and located across the street from the theater. Adapting to the space, the eight actors lounged around the movie house seats while excerpts from historical films and newsreels were projected on the back wall. Berg’s surreal dream scenes represent an early response to the challenge of revolutionary change in East Germany. The hope, assertions, resignation, betrayals, and illusions expressed in the monologues and dialogues register the dramatist’s uncertainty about the fact of revolution, an uncertainty which he configures as the disparity between the acceleration of political events and the subjective experience of social transformation.

References Published Texts: Berg, Jochen (1978) Im Taurerland. Theater der Zeit, 5, 58–64 ——(1985) Tetralogie. [Includes Niobe, Klytaimnestra, Im Taurerland, and Niobe am Sipylos.] Düsseldorf: Edition Vogelmann im Erb Verlag ——(1990) Strephart (Komödie). Theater der Zeit, 1, 55–64

130 MARC SILBERMAN

——(1991a) Die Engel. [Opera libretto.] Music by Ulrich Gumpert. Göttingen: Steidl ——(1991b) Fremde in der Nacht. Theater der Zeit, 11.

Unpublished Texts: Dave (1972) Wechsel (1973) Die Axt (1974) Die Phönizierinnen (after Euripides) Berlingbahl/Ariadnegesänge (opera libretti). Music by R.Hirschfeld Das Centrum (opera libretto). Music by R.Linke

Strangers in the Night Jochen Berg

Translated by Marc Silberman with permission of the author Copyright Jochen Berg, Berlin 1991 Dramatis Personae:

Siegfried Siegmund Woman Man Boss Old Man Policeman Girls 2/3/4 Children Border Guards Friends Three Yuppies The Mute The Mask [Prologue] Old Man

Let them kiss the heavens there’s reason to revel. After seventy years the East is done for. And even their plans have crumbled into dust. Whatever is left of humankind crawls in plastic cars over the borders and stutters Freedom. Because they never learned to speak. Monitored by the state and living in ruins.

132 JOCHEN BERG

Enthralled by the dazzle. They want to be like us. Shattered by mistakes. Their brains corroded by alcohol. They hold each others’ hands like children and shout. We are one people. And they mean us in this yearning of theirs. But the victorious feeling shows us none of the misery that is buried in the victory. And if the image of desperation crosses our face. Then our eyes Turn away. And if humanity lurches forward to the next victory: burning defeats. A new dazzle must enthrall the loss and powerless behind each steering wheel the crime travels along into this isolation. No one here believes the state of need can be exchanged for the state of freedom. Yet they come from the East and the South to see to touch the as yet unknown prosperous life. All of them fling themselves out of their time the borders are in the balance of catastrophes. Thus we are all strangers in the night from here to there already in flight. (exit laughing) The Balcony

Balcony. Vagrants under the balcony. Sunrise. Three yuppies enter the balcony. The vagrants flee into the distance. A: Good morning. A good shower you’re halfway there. B: Um. Poverty is growing. We get richer. C: A beautiful day why do they run away. A: If they don’t get up as soon as I come I always have them arrested. And practice you know may not make smart but it sure does trigger reflexes. C: Those guys over there are even worse than a plague you can’t get rid of them in any country. A: Get to the point. Friend. And tell us the news. B: Confusion only sows confusion there and no one knows now what belongs to whom. A: That’s good. Wear them down then boot them out. And throw them into even deeper anguish. And in the meantime buy up the best. Before they can yawn. It will all belong to us If it’s worth a thing so that we can make it our own. Anything else to see in our new states. B: They don’t yet know the game and how it works. Their cheerful spirit has abandoned them. Despondent they look deeply into the sky.

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A:

And they are so aglow with depression they must jump to stay in high spirits. Youngsters beat each other’s brains to a pulp violence and lament break forth because: they see money as money, bread as bread and where the two are exchanged they know not. And how you make a profit out of it. Their ignorance is great. Their knowledge slight. That’s good. We can now cash in on that. The Deserter

A man head on the table sleeping. A woman rinses her long hair in water in a bowl. Siegfried enters. Siegfried: Good evening. Whoever is sleeping now is dead. For twenty-eight years incarcerated now we are free. Rebuilding for the last forty years. Now we stand among ruins. And almost the entire government is sitting in jail. This now is our hour. The world is open. Everyone takes what he can for himself. Hey. Why doesn’t anyone ask me what I am looking for here and now. I will tell you. I am a soldier without a foe. And I am taking leave for German unity. The new times need their own new heroes. Mama. Papa. What do you have to say. My parents they remain completely silent. It would be better if I were not at home. Siegfried sets his weapons aside and takes off his uniform. Siegfried: He is a hero who gains the world daily. And more will belong to me than future alone. In your schools I became an idiot. You trained me as a killer at the Wall. That is a career. And crisis-free. Woman: Husband. Wake up at last I say. History is now on its way. Germany is awake. And opened the borders now by mistake. The man stands up like a sleepwalker and leaves the table. Man: I went to my bunker under the house. Some provisions are stocked here. Radio and television. I have to take notes to keep things clear in my head. I thought I was having a dream in which my son appeared as a deserter.

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I am writing this down after I saw a film on television in which the inhabitants of our country streamed into West Berlin through open border stations at the Wall. Filmed at incredible expense. With many walk-ons. Never seemed to end. In between interviews and official statements to enhance the live effect. The enemy doesn’t chintz when it comes to propaganda. We’re worth something once again. The similarity of the stand-ins to their originals was truly astounding. Time passes. Now. On all the television channels the unending horror film. The disintegration and expropriation of our country by our antagonistic German neighbors. Pretend live discussions. Everything at great expense. A new trick to get higher ratings. Wonderfully real. We can learn something from them. Why is this spectacle on every station. The film about the disintegration of our country is still running. Slowly my supplies of food and drink are running out. These unending programs are an attempt to destroy my mind. My receivers are probably being fed directly from the central office of the security police. That means: I have made a grave error. An error of which I am not aware and this is an attempt to get rid of me. One question remains: where do they get so many standins and so many walk-ons. Lately I’ve had the impression that my wife’s voice is calling me. Such a curious singsong. That can’t be. If I had made an error she would have been arrested long ago already. What error could this have been. I don’t know. The programs continue. I have decided to put this nightmare to an end. After I finished my last apple and my last beer, I clean my hunting rifle. There are enough shotgun shells. I have to go up. I have to clear this up. Siegfried before a mirror in a West German Army uniform. Siegfried: The question now is whom have I escaped. Out of one uniform into another. The mirror shows me the foe of former times. The man beneath the cloth: a temptation. Here is what’s new in current history: The deserter can advance to the rank of general. The man with the hunting rifle enters. Man: You can never be sure about anything. Never. Nothing is the way it is. I see that. And completely different than the pictures show. The foe has already seized the houses. And in his face is reflected a desire. My answer to this arrival is: The foe at home spares me the fight outside. The man shoots Siegfried. The woman opens her mouth.

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The Arrest

Siegfried: In this hour everything changes for everyone. As for me: should I play the guilty one. The house surrounded by my associates. Who have arrived to arrest me here. And only the night is night like any night. I hear them talk with my wife below. She is sick and will not survive this. Make no explanations. They only hear themselves. But I know: the enemy is inside. Shoot him. The pistol barrel between the teeth. Fire. But who invented the six-shooter. Whoever invented it did it for me. And without error or is the barrel bent. Death is an end. An end must be certain. Nice to hear the drops of rain on the window. A dog runs by. I take Herbert’s knife. He gave it to me after one of our hunts. Or is it a dagger. That was always nice. We sat and played cards dead set on winning. We drank and laughed. The wind blew outside. How do you open your veins with a knife. A doctor once said that most do it wrong. How then. Is there time to bleed to death. They will succeed in sewing me up. Stand up. The dagger in the heart and all is still. Both sides of the blade are dull. So it is. Not dagger or knife. Nothing solid from Solingen. Before they protected me. Now they arrest me. Time passes. The earth turns. Do something. What is to be done. People die as they lived. I am not accustomed to suicide. No thoughts. Take the noose. Here is the noose. How do I loop it. Or is it called a knot. Who cares. How do I knot a loop for a hanging noose. The best way is to crack the neck. Badly knotted it chokes you. That’s not right. Why was there no instruction in this subject. And where is the hook for the rope to hang myself. A ceiling hook belongs to the soldier’s furnishings. I’ll lodge a complaint. With whom. Who’s still free. And the telephone lines are already blocked. The guards have surrounded the house and wait.

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The mirror reflects my old loyal face. No suicide looks like that. I still see hope. Jump out the window. Shoot the guards. Fight. Each one his own prisoner. As long as he does not know what to do. Off we go. Not yet do I look like the dead of tomorrow. But they won’t catch me alive for their dirty pig. Why are the bodyguards now the sentries. Why. And no one established a society for humane dying. Here comes the flatterer of our loneliness the dog. He saunters through his dog’s life. Rightfully worried about tomorrow’s dog chow. His ears full of song from curses hate and human complaint. The price for his meal. With a long-practiced sad look he lies down to hear the misery of human voices. Good. Lie down comfortably. Let’s begin. Do the work for your last meal. Oh what is a person without work. Denuded. Naked inside and outside. Oh so meaningless the hidden beauty. Without humor like women without men. Without light like an unseen star. This is a person without office and money. Death rotates through his head. He is bankrupt. And tomorrow it shall continue. But how. And a century full of dictatorships. Hardly did I half learn to hate the Jews and now I should praise the Asians. Greet the Blacks. And only my money can teach me contempt. I have none. Still today I am in prison. A dog remains a dog in all times of change. If only I could eavesdrop on the creator. I would gladly exchange the role with you. Don’t whimper. Let’s show our knowledge today. In times of upheaval the shadows fall hard. I remember. Dog. Forty-five. When the Russians hacked my friend to pieces. They threw him to the hogs for feed. But we are in this world to be happy. The last happiness in life: a quick death. Where is the directive for our bodyguard to liquidate us. I say one and two and three and four. Talking is not the same as acting. Someone can have false opinions despite his correct behavior. The rule always interested me more than the exception.

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If only I had enough real money at home. The politicians of the rabble are corruptible. They’re talking with my wife down there so long. Duration too lasts a bit too long. I am too young for a mistake. Not everything is finished when it’s done. I will tell you a secret dog. Listen. Our successes were our ruin. And it was nice and quiet in our country. The one listened and the other was silent. (sings) We trained you wrong dog We trained you for peace and loyalty we cheated ourselves out of you the old things can never again be new. (enter Siegmund) If only you had become a fighting dog. You would be some use to me now. You could murder me. Siegmund: It is night. The husband as many a night climbs up the stairs to his daughter the wife as every night gets out of bed. And follows her husband to the door. There she masturbates with closed eyes she moans with the sounds of fornication. The holy family remains true to itself. Then each goes to sleep with the secret. Later the husband swallows meat in the kitchen. Drinks beer. Looks at TV and petrifies The end of his job and he goes to vomit. Germany for the Germans he thinks bent over the sink it remains in the family and he laughs. Siegfried: The voice knows intimate things to recite. Siegmund: And even more than you yourself know. My friend. Siegfried: I know your face. You I do not know. Siegmund: In your job to forget is a duty. I was your informer. Your secrets. I know them. I spied on you. For twenty years. And know where you are going before you go. Siegfried: What a joke. Where will be I going then. Siegmund: History has made us unemployed. Siegfried: When the sun is shining the land becomes beautiful. And no change in the world makes me yearn for death. The times were good. Now they must get better. But who will tell me how that works. Tell me. I must know how to remain a victor.

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Siegmund: You must be what no one is and all do. If you want to have a future speak loudly of it. Don’t give the poor what they need. He who has nothing also receives no credit. And have the rare courage to stand for what you know. Be tactful for consider that the others are clever. Be polite for you see that they are simply arrogant. Think about what you will do tomorrow already. They consider possessions as future enough. Siegfried: You design me anew. That is not who I am. If you know me then tell me what I can do. Siegmund: You would lose your courage, my friend. Where there is hope there is also victory. Confidence spares us the hospital fees. And success makes the world go round. Siegfried: If I had the time I would note these words. Siegmund: I know your every taste. Every error. How you plan and what you achieve. Alone you are just the dull average. Yes. I spied on you for twenty years. Now hear my advice. It will help both you and me. Your face is unknown to the citizens. It has grown so full of sweet emptiness that they believe they see themselves and believe that you express their wishes for them. That makes possible our start towards the goal. That is the one. And I am the other. There have always been advisors and ghostwriters. I know every corner of your soul. I will acquaint you with yourself. My friend. That is the new history now there were never before such partners: At my side you will become error-free. We are the windfall in the collapse. I will feed you with my data and avoid you at the same time. That will be our success. A pair of twins in a completely new style. History just invented us. Enter two policeman in civilian dress. Siegfried: How do I address you comrades. With mister or honored gentlemen. Betrayers or betrayed betrayers. Or just betrayed and payed off. Or simply enthusiastic losers. Policeman: Read the indictment charges the crimes That were committed by accomplices

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Siegfried: Siegmund: Siegfried: Siegmund:

or in person against the welfare of the country. Let each read in his own reader. Stand still. Or else I’ll shoot away the hole called your head. Maybe you’ll think more clearly. Listen he’s already talking future slang. And you go over and take their weapons away. And hold on to him. He’s looking at his heaven. I’ll take the other one and show him his world.

Siegmund cuts the throats of both policemen. Siegmund: Death can be silent like the snow. Siegfried: The politician shows what he can do. That profession has still not ceased. The enviable change lends him support. Every person knows what it means to forget. My memory that is my forgetting. And outside it goes on raining. And The guards stand there and look up at the window. And when I lift my hand to greet them they turn their backs to me ashamed. They remember. These are people. Our successes were our ruin. The lesson is: This is how to self-destruct. And switch from the role to the person. And if you survive all the urgencies you can seek out a new war for yourself. A good thing that panic did not confuse me. I know nothing about the craft of suicide. And the instruments of despair. Victory of the poor. So they remain a still life. I too am one and not too many for me And where I am missing there I miss myself. And with his dreams almost sunk into the mud the man helps himself up with a joke. The future is the best thing we’ve got. The Fall

Siegfried with friends between the Quadriga on the Brandenburg Gate. Night. Siegfried: I drink with you to this new year. Self-earned freedom, the best freedom. Accustomed to victory I say: This victory Intoxicates more than all my other victories. Makes me more drunk than any vodka That you had to drink for the past forty years almost drowned in your gray misery sweeps away shouts of joy the old mourning.

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Friends. Being together is good. Drink. Hard nights are coming. Hard days. Siegfried falls. The joy of being able to fly. At last. He who risks nothing lives not. I fly. Beneath me humanity. The human being. The most vulnerable of all creatures. Merciless and exposed. Settled where he is the furthest from heaven. Poets praise as a special birthright his upright gait, so that we look to heaven that is our home…That is truly a lyric birthright. Five gulls are circling over broken crates. How did it start. Did I jump or did someone push me. A mistake. A crime. A suicide. Nonsense. I would have to know. But how did it start. I won’t be able to research it. We’ll see. A gulp of whiskey in flight. It works. A human being. I wouldn’t want to know what all we could do that we know nothing about. For two thousand years everything fell from above. Except the bird. But we rose up. Rose up…Four ringdoves are flying by. Too bad there are no sheep dogs here. A dead crow in the attic of a city needs three years to disappear including decomposition decay of the bones and dispersion of the dust. Spring comes later. Today there is Limburger cheese. A table covered with a white linen cloth. A glass full of beer. Rye rolls with goose drippings. Garlic and onions and pepper. Vinegar oil and cracked caraway. A sharp knife white china and mild weather. Most of it exists only below. Earth-bound culture. Humanity is not prepared for other situations. A good thing that I have a dry roll with me. Otherwise I would become a hopeless idealist in the middle of my flight. German. Although they are just getting started. Eat. Yes. It works. Wonder of wonders. A hero who moves toward his bullet that inexorably flies toward him. Inevitable. What would scientists call such a hit. A molecular rendezvous. A hero who moves toward his bullet and has nothing to eat has lost his sense of humor. Regrettable that no one up here can say my name. Here you are truly an outsider. And yet I ought to be down there calling into the future. Instead I am in the air. As if I were free. Solace or selfdeception: maybe several layers of history must be constructed. I would like to know what the scholars call that. No chance that they

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would research it on my behalf. Probably I am now on my way to a molecular rendezvous. What did they actually do down there all these incarcerated days and years behind the Wall behind the windows. Did they sit for years and look day-in day-out into the depths of their TV screens like the saints in India or the unemployed. Philosophy and religion develop in different climates. Even under extreme motionlessness neither one of them could be attained. Undress and dress. Hero’s work. I am an athlete. State employee. Olympic champion. My body larded with medals shotproof armed. He is a hero whom the world pleases anew time and again. But what is the gesture of flying during the fall. Leg foot hand arm head. Hats off here there is nothing to greet. Deceptively far below the joyously drunken heads. The arms raised. Sounds from the mouths. Joy and horror have the same gestures. Here only the light changes constantly. What is a second. A day. A year. We disappear in it. That is the design of eternity. We have little practice with movement in the material of air. Now I am blown into a horizontal position. My right leg stretches slightly upward. My right arm downward as if it wanted to prop itself. My left leg turned sideways my left arm bent toward my upward-looking face. My hand almost touches my forehead. Do I look backwards. The Quadriga deceptively far above me.

Girls 2/3/4: 2: 3: 4: Siegfried: 4:

Siegfried:

2: Siegfried: 2:

In the middle of the inferno this din of war. Surrounded by the noises of ignorance. I need rest. I was the first. We made love in the forest. We made love on the beach. We made love on the bed. I don’t know you. It was in summer at the place for drying laundry. The wind rustled the sheets stretched on the line. Then I saw you. And took you with me to an apartment. So what. You were fifteen I know. You were wearing garters. And later when everything came out I learned that you were also in the brothel secretly run by the director of the village brass band. It was summer. We were walking through the forest. Right. You were singing. If you don’t love me be careful.

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Siegfried:

4: 3: Siegfried:

2/3/4: Siegfried:

Yes. And then you gently hit me in the face with a green-leaved branch. Your hair was coal black and you said you were one of the exterminated gypsies. A girl. Left behind. A gypsy girl. No. That was me. It was summer. We were sitting on the beach freezing. The sun came up and we silently smoked a cigarette and looked at the waves. You said a cigarette burns for seven minutes. It was the most meaningful sentence I had heard up to that point. Then you stood up suddenly. Showed me your belly and said there was a child in it. And it was already kicking. If it is kicking then it is not mine. I said and left without turning around. And in winter. What about the winter. Was there no one in winter. And in fall and in spring. What did I do then. Silence. And the first. Which of you was the first. I. Three crows are flying by. I am completely broke. I have no job. And there is nobody. Who I could ask for help. No religion. Nothing. It always starts with a discovery. In my case it was a gym teacher. I must have caught his attention and then two men came from the city. They chased me through the forest till I dropped exhausted and vomited. That’s great. They said. Talked with my parents and took me with them to the city. The good thing was that I got away from home. And even better: I had a future. A future which I didn’t have to worry about. Others took care of that for me. My future was my body. They devised training programs for me and my body worked. Success. Success. Success. They considered them exclusively their successes. Mistake upon mistake. For me only one thing was important: escape. As soon as I was alone, away from their commands. I felt good. Only silence and body. Their hoarse calls disappeared into the distance. No commotion. No sound. And the deeds the deeds who can guess them. My privilege: Silently I went from victory to victory. There is no job that can call this privilege its own. Even a saint must have first spoken. Winning silently was my strength. The deeds the deeds who can guess them. You were born on Holy Thursday: The Lord conferred a memory upon his miracles. Heat yes. The layers of air bring various scenes into view. From somewhere or another a shout reaches me: Siegfried. Nonsense. I can no longer turn back. I am sitting in a honey-colored room on a summer’s afternoon. Next to me lies a woman. My mother. And sleeps. I am reading El Dorado. And when I lift my head. I see a deserted scene. Congealed in the shimmering heat. Far in the forest a lull. Next to me a voice breathes while sleeping. I step outside on the path and go toward the forested chalk cliffs in the distance. The path of rustred sand. To the left and the right bright yellow wheat fields with

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red corn poppies and bluebonnets. No one. And an unusual calm. To practice tolerance you need someone who makes life difficult. With every step the desire for an encounter grows. At the least with an enemy. He who fears nothing gains the world. The earth devours and spits. That is the process. Most of the time on earth we spend as corpses in it. Until we are caught up by the wind and together with all digested matter cover everything. First-class dust. If you know that you are invulnerable. Children: Well, happy with so much smart talk. You have a task. Make us. Find a woman for it. She is lying ready at the clearing. We are your unborn children. Make us. We want to be brought into the world. It was made for us. We want to call you daddy. We want to learn. We want to kiss feet and break backbones. We are right. Make us. Something will come of us. We’ll go with you through fire and brimstone to mommy. Remember. Remember. You have a task. Siegfried: Whispering voices. And then a naked woman is lying in front of me. She is sleeping. Children: Now. He is taking out his genitals. And sticks it in her. It fits. Pleasure. That’s a good start. They are getting ready to make us. One two three four fire. That’s right. Again. One two three four fire. That’s right. Stop. If they are going to make us. We must first know whether they are clean as a whistle. They are too young to imagine their diseases. Shamelessly ignorant they are fucking their lethal bacteria into us. And later we will have to pay the price. Stop. Stop. Stop. Too late. The countdown is running. Encouragement is appropriate. One two three four five fire. Make us. We want to be brought to earth. We are tomorrow’s heroes. Fire. Our mommy shouts yes. And again yes. She probably doesn’t know his name. Now. He pulls out his genitals and shoots his sperm in the surroundings. You bastard. Why didn’t you make us. There is no more love between people. Siegfried: Peace at last. I open my eyes. Under the Brandenburg Gate the milling crowd roars: Such a day such a wonderful day like today, such a day can never end. Wisecrackers. The right music to accompany me. Fireworks are exploding around me. Such a day such a wonderful day like today. Forty years behind me and always the winner. Turned toward the future. And always the winner. I emerge out of the blue into the bright night. Longed for day. Border Guards: You crossed a border that does not belong to our jurisdiction. Even if you fall into our hands, we are no longer responsible for you. Siegfried: Seven gulls are circling above broken crates. And no nightingale in this inferno. Human existence is humanity’s solace. A solace that people still exist. Because every person’s days are numbered no one leaves the world alive.

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By the sweat of their brow they eat in fear the bitter fare beyond Eden God at their back and Jesus before their eyes. Similarities unclear.

Friends:

Siegfried: Frends:

Siegfried:

The truth is: I had never started to live. Maybe as a child. But wrenched out midway through my eyes saw nothing but cinder tracks, grass, sand, sky and the boarding school rooms. Later then the Olympic stadiums and the sleeping cells. I had dreams of flying after every victory. Nothing else. I was on many of the world’s continents without having changed places. My place was everywhere the same. Bus, plane, stadium, resting cells. I couldn’t escape. Every job has its dwelling places: For the archeologist shards of a buried world. For the pathologist intestines on the dissecting table. For the pop singer the crowd’s screaming in a trance. For the pilot fear in the cockpit. For the meteorologist the echo of the last wars. Every profession has its dwelling places. Who knows the world. Who knows life. Who among us is confined without noticing it. You are the architect of your own fortune. Sketch a bed of roses. Our Olympian hero is falling there. He never learned to fly for his victories. He who cannot fly should Not get carried away. He who rises high will fall low. Yes. Look. Our friend is falling. And no one can help him anymore. Yet who among us felled him. The folk music roars up to the heavens. Look. Struggle in the airspace. He is grasping for the birds. He is not giving up. He is killing whatever he gets his hands on. Let’s turn away. Victory. Peace has ended. Now sleet is falling around me. And I am in the middle. Great company. I thought a human voice would accompany me. A person standing at foot’s end unimportant where I lie in the end. A person of my denomination which I must belong to because it just happens to be my turn. To say solemnly a sentence at the last moment like: We can rely on you. That helps. But even a fall arrives. Below me the Wall overgrown with people. A day that will live on in the books. And I experience: history is noise. Never give up. Allow them no triumph. For the spoiled the wine tastes flat. For the healthy strong. For the thirsty splendid. Each one exaggerates in his own way. Be honorable and die like a winner. Before the murderers triumph do what you can still do. Kill yourself. Sweat breaks out on your skin. Take the knife. Celebrate marriage with your own corpse falling to your death. Take the knife.

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Draws the knife and with full force thrusts it between his ribs. Still conscious he wraps his wet arm around the air. So that the strong stream that shoots out of his mouth ends with drops of red blood in thin air. And he saw his face how it looked when he had stabbed with the knife. And the noise of the joyously drunken roaring provides him with the music. To which the images of the man. Whom he had just killed danced through his head. And I still hear a man next to me say: The foreigner will hardly be forgiven that he is not German as they all are now.

The Mine Field

Landscape. Meadow. Trees. East German soldiers are digging at a mass grave. A table at which an older couple sits across from one another. Enter: Boss, Siegfried Boss: You know, I can not tolerate very long walks. Siegfried: We are already there. This is the place. Here is a stool, boss, for you to relax. Boss: Don’t say boss. You know I’ve been dismissed. And the secret service dismantled. Siegfried: Sit down boss. And look closely at what you are sitting on and tell me. Boss: What I am sitting on. Idiot. On a stool. Siegfried: That’s right boss, and then all around us. Boss: In a meadow and it is on the planet. Siegfried: And in the meadow are the mines, boss. We are in a mine field here. I did it for us. Boss, for us. Boss: Where did you get the mines idiot. Siegfried: Where the borders are being torn down there are mines. I could buy them there, boss. Boss: Don’t call me boss and let’s get going now. Siegfried: No. We stay or you will go alone. You know your way around mine fields. Boss: I thought you were an idiot, you are crazy. Siegfried: What was it like then in Italy, boss, under the blue sky. In the last war. On the left and right the mines and a corpse. How do you get out of a mine field. Tell it once again. I like to hear it. Or go home, boss. Into the air directly to freedom.

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Boss: Siegfried: Boss: Siegfried: Boss:

Siegfried. That is my name, boss. I know. You were a hero, now let’s go to dinner. The motto is: you or me. You know, the hero is always the loser.

The soldiers have dug out three skulls in addition to the other bones. The mute comes to the table at which mommy/daddy are sitting. They stare at the allegedly ahistorical heavens. Mute: You don’t remember. I am your son. In forty-five the Russians arrested me because I was walking on the street. I was seventeen…I survived. Now I am twenty. I come from Sachsenhausen and had to consent that I would keep silent about it. I won’t say a word about it. If I knew that you could be trusted. That nothing would happen to me. But I can’t know whether my father or my mother or my sister would utter a word. Gong of a wall clock. Mommy/daddy disappear through a stage trap. Mute: My parents died without knowing what was really happening. What happened to me. They knew nothing. They didn’t ask and I said nothing. My sister heard about it forty-two years later. Now when it’s public. My wife learned of it yesterday. And the children. Boss: Do you see the three skulls there, Siegfried. Siegfried: Yes, I see them, boss. What is that, boss. Boss: Hardly does history begin anew, they are digging out the old one behind us. Boss draws a revolver from his jacket and shoots at the skulls. The soldiers continue impassively with their shovelling. Boss: That is Herbert, and that is Herbert too. And the third one there, is a Herbert. The first of them was a Jew under Hitler. The second at the same time a Communist. The third the Russians picked up from the street because they needed one more on their truck. All of them now united in a grave. And those who now shovel them out of the sand were once commandeered socialists. Do you know the difference between them all. Siegfried: No, Boss. Teach me, I am listening. Boss: Some of them are dead, the others alive. The wise man is surrounded by reality. This century is there to learn. And the faster the ideas in it change, and those never understood fail, the better it stimulates the mind. German shepherds circle the site.

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Mute:

And when the Russians released me from the camp, I sought work. And when I had found work, I had to join the German-Soviet Friendship Society.

Girl’s laughter. A girl leads a masked figure to the mute. Mask: I will tell you a secret. Can you keep silent mute. The mute nods. Mask: Good. I am Siegfried. I can’t kill the creature. I am still standing. Beat the creature. Tear it apart with my weapons. Drink the blood and hear from the birds what will happen. The beloved Brunhilde came to me and my spouse Kriemhilde. Hagen my murderer and all the others lie around us on a picnic and wait for something to happen. And I work and work and work and can’t kill the creature. Girl’s laughter. A computer rises from a stage trap. A girl at the computer. Girl: Everything is an extension of myself. The pencil, the lover, the computer that tragically cannot forget. While we in the midst of our work at not forgetting constantly experience the ongoing collapse of our times. Images count. The ideas disappear gradually from the world. Girl’s laughter. The girl in front of the computer sings: How you carry your brow so openly. The branching of the veins twists around your temples. (Valkyrie. Sieglinde. Act 1.) Boss: Siegfried, let’s go. Time is running out. Siegfried: I no longer know about time, Boss. I am right in it, an echo of time. And sand in the gears of a wedding. Boss: Say what you want so that it continues. Siegfried: Before the betrayal you must kill me, boss. Boss: No one will betray you. Let’s go. Siegfried: There are too many nobodies for me in this country. Boss: Besides me no one knows who you were. Siegfried: I was a terrorist. They are looking for me. Now the borders are open. It is my turn. For ten years I lived under the protection of the Wall. Well concealed, boss, in its shadow. Protected against the reach of our enemies. Now is the hour of betrayal, boss. You will betray me, boss. I too am the price for a German unity. I lived so well, boss. At night I lay in a woman. Had work just regular. Knew who I can

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greet, and who I may scream at. And when I went to sleep, I had a morning after. On weekends in the summer green trees a rowboat on the lake and sky. That was so nice, boss, and it was peaceful. The apartment becomes a prison for life after the betrayal. I don’t have the money to flee, and I cannot hope for an amnesty. I can convince no one with youthful follies. They are already breaking up everything. And where there is an ear, it hears only clamor. And those who speak get the fist. This is not the time for explanations, boss. Here is the stick, you know how to do it. Boss: How you get out of the mine field. So filled with fear you spoke a long time. Siegfried: If a deed had made me rich, I would be writing memoirs laughing on a beach in the Caribbean as is the fashion. Ice-cold cocktails in my hand, nights playing the hero. Boss: Wishes are a bad use of time. Work for me. The world has turned. What was yesterday is but yesterday. I am now working for the Yanks. When Germany is one, they will want to know all and to own today each plan for tomorrow. Honorable work well paid. Siegfried: That is nice, boss, that you found something. Boss: Just say yes and you will be one of us. Siegfried: Here is the stick, you know how to do it. Boss: Where there is a mind there is also a mistake. An offer, it is there for the taking. And yearning for death is something for your free time. The soldiers have disappeared in the pit. Once in awhile some sandflies out. The mute steps up to the mass grave. Mute: Let me join your club. I want to see my friends again. Girl’s laughter. At the same time the mute and the girl dance a waltz: The Blue Danube. Boss: Listen. I will tell you now how it works. A doctor will help us, a surgeon, and he will cut you another face. And he will mold you a new head So that your mother will call you a stranger. We will erase your fingerprints. Out of Siegfried we will make a Hans.

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Siegfried:

Boss:

Siegfried:

Boss:

Siegfried:

Boss:

Siegfried: Boss: Siegfried: Boss:

For ten years you lived here in safety. Thanks to my work. And now you will enter the other world as a new man. And be active for me in the new service. I am the only one who can help you. An unnecessary extravagance this mine field. You know you can trust me more than your children. In me there is no betrayal. What about my step. As Hans I will walk like Siegfried. My habit of eating. I prefer like everyone something special. Also my way of drinking. Who will change my physiology. Your preference for pork will only alarm the Muslim, and the beer you drink is not so peculiar in our region. But when at which time and how much as well. You know, boss, what can be found in files today. Even the smell of a mouth is noted down. It is possible that you only want to chat. Ten years of calm have deranged you. Do you see the stars moving away. Around us. Name a topic. We will talk until the morning. How can I live in freedom, boss. As one among many. Unknown Beloved and hated like every citizen. Like I learned it here with the years. Show me the way, I will take it. You ask for much in a short time. And your craze for tedious life almost shatters my nerves. A hero remains a hero, and even the deeds of an old man are not excused. My offer stands. Become another person. Become yourself again. We will rebuild you. I feel the wind on my brow and then it begins I fall into a gloom. How can I help you to live again. Here is the stick. You know how to do it… I’ll take the stick. It is enough from you. A final word a bit of logic, friend. If I betray you to our old enemies, sell you, you too will have to betray me. With my name you will buy yourself free, and I will be the betrayed one. I am not interested in this game. If you want to be saved, you will have to save me. Now let’s leave this place and

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Figure 1 Scene with the GDR state seal from Strangers in the Night by Jochen Berg. Director: Frank Castorf. Set and costumes: Bert Neumann. (Volksbühne, Berlin, 1992). Photo: Gregor

Siegfried:

together we will do our new work. That is the truth, boss, and it makes sense. A good solution that serves us all.

Two ravens fly by. Circle above Siegfried and fly away. Siegfried gives a sudden start. Turning his back to the boss, Siegfried watches the ravens. The boss draws his revolver and shoots Siegfried. Boss: This man, he deprived himself of his short life. Rough times. There will seldom be wisdom. Boss pushes the dead Siegfried in front of him with the stick. Blackout. Boss: I know what I know. If it doesn’t fit get rid of it. Pieces of Siegfried’s corpse fly in the light of exploding mines. The girl and the mute sing together: Do I have you again? May I touch you? Can I trust myself? At last! At last! The mute steps into the mass grave and disappears. Vultures hover peacefully.

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Figure 2 From left to right, Frank Schendier, Sophie Rois, Sabine Svoboda, and Hildegard Alex in Frank Castorf’s production of Strangers in the Night by Jochen Berg. (Volksbühne, Berlin, 1992.) Photo: Gregor

Epilog This end may allow us to hope for a dawn the knife however alwavs remains drawn.

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The Poets and the Power: Heiner Müller, Christa Wolf, and the German Literaturstreit Katrin Sieg

In the summer of 1990, the publication of Christa Wolf’s novella What’s Left prompted a heated debate among German cultural critics. The controversy quickly expanded into (1) an investigation of the moral function of intellectuals working within an oppressive system, (2) the discrediting of leftist culture (East and West), and (3) the call for a literature in the united Germany which would no longer subscribe to a model of aesthetics tied to social/moral responsibility. Wolf and Heiner Müller became key figures in the German public’s confrontation with socialist culture. The debate sharpened after the discovery of these authors’ involvement with the East German secret police. This essay offers a reading of the Literaturstreit as a spectacular performance in the German print and television media. At the same time, the Literaturstreit operated as a performative text that organized inter-German relations in a constellation that accorded former East Germans a morally and culturally inferior position. The article also examines Müller’s and Wolf’s strategies of intervention in the debate. KEY WORDS: Müller, Wolf, Stasi, Literaturstreit, feminism, Benjamin “My place, if my drama would still happen, would be on both sides of the front, between the frontlines, over and above them.” These words, spoken by the actor playing Hamlet in Heiner Müller’s Hamletmachine (1977), ring ominous in retrospect, echoing within the debate surrounding the intellectuals’ role and alleged failure in the face of the German Democratic Republic’s political collapse in 1989. In the summer of 1990, that debate crystallized in the controversy around Christa Wolf, a celebrated writer, critic, and moral icon. The debate has been newly inflected and sharpened by the discovery, in January of 1993, of these authors’ involvement with the East German secret police, the Stasi (short for Staatssicherheit). Wolf was asked to return the prestigious Geschwister-Scholl-Preis awarded to her by the city of Munich in 1987, named after two anti-fascist resistance fighters who were executed by the Nazis. In February, she resigned from the newly unified Academy of Arts, feeling herself to be a liability to that organization.

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In this essay, I would like to offer a reading of the Literaturstreit or “literature controversy” as a performance which was spectacularly staged in the German print and television media, a spectacle whose stridency and ideological transparency reminded some critics of a show-trial (Elfriede Jelinek in Vinke 1993:239). The text of this performance was published in two anthologies: the earlier one, which appeared in 1990, assembled the voices of literary scholars and critics addressing Wolf’s novel What’s Left; the second (1993) documents critical responses to Wolf’s (and, to some extent, Müller’s) involvement with the Stasi. At the same time, the Literaturstreit operated as a performative text that organized and tended to fix interGerman relations in a constellation that accorded former East Germans a clearly subordinate and (morally and culturally) inferior position. Wolf in particular was cast as a conduit for dominant and contestatory discourses; her persona served as a “sacrificial presence” in the German theater of cruelty that was staged in the wake of reunification. This role was made possible to some extent by her silence, which lasted until her involvement with the Stasi became public in January of 1993. The timing Wolf chose for the publication of her fictional account of a writer’s surveillance by the secret police under the title What’s Left, written eleven years earlier, was interpreted as the attempt to portray herself as the victim of a regime which she had supported throughout her life. It highlighted her contradictory status as a poet laureate of state socialism and one of its most prominent dissenters. The book provided the focus for a debate among literary critics primarily in West Germany, although some East German intellectuals participated as well. While the controversy began with questions about the West German habit of awarding East German authors a so-called “dissident bonus,” an issue which, as GDR expatriate poet Wolf Biermann asserted, was long overdue, it quickly expanded into (1) an investigation of the moral function of intellectuals working within an oppressive system, (2) the discrediting of leftist culture (East and West), and (3) the call for a literature in the united Germany which would no longer subscribe to a model of aesthetics tied to social/moral responsibility.1 Conservative West German critics in particular viewed that model as thrice-corrupted in 20th century German history: first in the Third Reich, secondly in the literature of the New Left in the 1960’s, and thirdly in the “failure” of East German intellectuals to articulate or spearhead an opposition to the GDR’s ruling party. Despite or perhaps because of their respected status as critics of the GDR, both Christa Wolf and Heiner Müller became the targets of attacks as well as the objects of salvage efforts. Müller and Wolf like no other artists had represented socialist culture during the existence of the GDR—both in the sense of offering exemplary biographies, from their childhood during the Third Reich to their subsequent commitment to socialism, and, soon, their disenchantment with the Party apparatus and the socialist state, and in the sense of providing literary dramatic representations of that country’s troubled history and ideological contradictions. During the Wende (lit. turning point, i.e., reunification), their experiences have been exemplary of the shifting power relations within the united Germany, turning them into key figures in the German public’s confrontation with socialist culture. Unlike Wolf, Müller has weathered the public 1

See also Andreas Huyssen’s analysis of the Literaturstreit.

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accusations of his Stasi-involvement relatively unscathed. His metamorphosis from playwright to political actor, first as president of the East Berlin Academy of Arts, and now as one of the five artistic directors at the Berliner Ensemble, shows a change in direction, but exhibits no downward turn. In 1988 and 1990, spanning the epochal turning-point, the GDR’s most celebrated playwright was honored first with the Heiner Müller Werkschau and later at the Frankfurt experimental, both devoted to a retrospective of his work. Although occasionally in the line of fire during the turbulent years following the fall of the Wall, the playwright continued to be cast as spokesperson for the GDR intelligentsia. He frequently appeared on talkshows, gave interviews, and published two books of political commentary as well as his autobiography, War Without Battles: A Life in Two Dictatorships. His unbroken success would seem to indicate that he has managed to maintain his role of dissenter/ critic in the new order, almost effortlessly adapting to the changed conditions of the cultural marketplace in capitalism. In contrast, Wolf initially refrained from commenting on what some perceived as a witchhunt against her. After the Fall of 1989, when she frequently spoke out at demonstrations (her articles and speeches were collected and published in 1990 as well), she remained silent during the debate triggered by What’s Left. In 1992, she accepted a one-year fellowship at the Getty Center for Scholars in Los Angeles, finding herself in the same place as German emigrants such as Brecht, Reinhardt, Feuchtwanger and Heinrich Mann during the Second World War. From that vantage point, she observed what she feared was a similar attempt to eradicate an entire literary tradition from the nation’s historical memory and future. The so-called “Stasi-debate,” which began when certain newspapers gained access to Müller’s and Wolf’s Täter-Akten (the files documenting their work for the Stasi, lit. “perpetrator-files”) and published excerpts from them, repeated some of the previous responses to What’s Left. Critics had accused Wolf of hypocrisy, since she was perceived to claim “victim-status” despite her privileged status within the GDR cultural apparatus. Müller’s file covered a much longer period, but later turned out to contain no damaging evidence of collaboration, while Wolf’s file covered the three year period from 1959 to 1962 and included fifteen pages that document meetings between the author and agents of the secret police, including one report written by Wolf, which discusses colleagues in the Writers’ Union. Critics’ accusations against her were intensified in light of this new evidence, and culminated in articles published in the national newsmagazine Der Spiegel and the weekly Die Zeit, which deplored her lack of integrity and courage. Ironically, the media’s condemnations were at times couched in the terms used by one Stasi agent, who had denounced Wolf as opportunistic (Vinke 1993:49), because she was a less than forthcoming collaborator. The Zeit critic Fritz J.Raddatz declared Wolf’s work to be “damaged” by her infamy, and asked whether it still deserved to be called “literature” at all. “A work of art,” he declaimed, must contain “a kernel of innocence, an ounce of purity” (168), and, with bathos, appealed to Wolf and Müller to “be true to the dignity of your work. Explain. Relieve me and your readers of our sadness” (171).2 2

This and all future translations are mine, until otherwise noted.

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Both Müller and Wolf to some degree embodied the historical memory of the GDR, and both developed culturally specific strategies of writing, revising, and contesting dominant historiography as linear, progressive, and teleological. In the international, postmodern traffic of texts, their situatedness in the process and apparatus of cultural production in the GDR is frequently neglected; Sylvére Lotringer’s interviews with Müller, published in Semiotexte’s Foreign Agents series, contain frequent allusions to such western theorists as Jean Baudrillard, and Christa Wolf is the only GDR writer included in Sigrid Weigel’s major critical survey of German feminist literature, implying that ideological differences which exclude Wolf’s countrywomen from representation do not apply to Wolf’s work. At any rate, one might hope that Müller’s densely metaphorical memory-plays of epic scope and Wolf’s introspective, tormented prose on socialist subjectivity would offer historiographical models able to withstand or challenge the immense ideological pressures bearing on the retrospective streamlining of German history, now being revised from the perspective of the winners of the Cold War. In an interview, Müller stressed the importance of critical memory-work for East Germans: There are forty years of GDR-culture to be reappraised. This can’t be delegated to people who haven’t lived through these experiences. That is, the experience of these battles of resistance and conformity, and compromises…and the experience of the failure of a social experiment. I think that this experience is enormously important for the new Germany. In ten years at the latest we will realize that we need this experience. (Rouse, 1993:65). In this context, Walter Benjamin’s “Historical-Philosophical Theses” on memory and the construction of history attained great importance particularly to Eastern intellectuals—perhaps because of the philosopher’s emphasis on crisis and catastrophe as the conditions of remembering. Rather that finding out or writing down “how it really was,” he insists, the critical historian is faced with fleeting images, with the refuse, ruins, and traces left behind by events. Memory, then, requires work, and this work is performed under duress, in order to challenge and intervene in the hegemonic repression of disturbing, dissident and unassimilable memories. Benjamin’s thoughts on memory and history illuminate the Literaturstreit, because they call attention to the stakes involved in constructing historical representations, and acknowledge not only the moment of fear and danger under which a memory can and must be grasped, but also its power to fuel rage and vengeance in the name of the past (Benjamin, 1955:502). While Benjamin’s notion of history-in-crisis accounts for subjective factors and intentions of the memory-worker, and of her/his political investments and affiliations, it historicizes the moment of writing rather than psychologizing it. This is an important difference, since the term “repression” has come to dominate the Literaturstreit. The word’s psychoanalytical usage is symptomatic of the surprising currency of psychoanalytical models in popular discourses, which are drawn upon to explain GDR history and a “socialist mentality” that must be “cured” before the two parts of the formerly divided country may be integrated. Hans-Joachim Maaz’ bestselling “psychogram of the GDR,” entitled Der Gefühlsstau (emotional back-log/ jam), epitomizes such an approach. Maaz, an East German psychoanalyst, interprets the GDR state as an externalized representation of psychic structures, which were characterized by repression, fear and a resulting “back-log” of censored and suppressed emotions and desires. Individual deviations from a healthy, psychological

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maturation process, he posits, lead to societal deviations that in turn further deform the individual. Maaz’s book culminates in the hypothesis that the GDR never reached the genital stage, marked by “autonomy, self-confidence, responsibility, openness and directness” (Maaz, 1990:89); instead, it was arrested in the anal stage, characterized by feelings of inferiority, sexual frustration, and the compulsive need for approval (Maaz 89). His assertions, which were widely debated in the mass media, would be comical if the infantilization of an entire population were less damaging in their consequences, for what could better legitimate the dismissal of the GDR’s history and culture than such an explanation, which reduces the socialist experiment to an aberration in the grand progress of the German nation? What, in effect, could better render a probing and serious confrontation with the past (by East and West German individuals, by East and West German society) unnecessary? Memory, history, and mortality are newly charged with utopian potential in the technological age of late capitalism, Müller explained in an interview (Müller 1991: 70). He stresses, however, that those concepts, which secure a last bastion for a vanishing subject, should be practiced through art rather than psychoanalysis (Müller 1991:71). Whereas art resists the functionalization of the individual, psychoanalysis stabilizes the dominant, Western value-system and ensures its smooth operation. The publication of his autobiography in 1991 notwithstanding, Müller refused to participate in a public dissection of his psychological makeup, a stance which he summarized in the statement “I don’t want to know who I am” (A. and V.Braun in Vinke 315). In his 1992 production of Mauser, which combined that text with four others and thus offered a kind of retrospective of his work, Müller addressed GDR history and the Wende through images, packing pain and rage into dense theatrical metaphors and choreographies (see Rouse, 1993).3 His shift from the language of political commentary to that of metaphor and image may again be understood through Benjamin’s notion of revolutionary history as a disruption of linear time. Benjamin’s thesis on the “angel of history,” inspired by Klee’s painting of the Angelus Novus, situates history on the fautline of narrative, “the arena commanded by the ruling class,” versus the non-verbal discourse of the image, the spectacle, and myth, which have not (yet) been fixed in/by dominant interpretations. In other words, the image and the myth contain traumatic memories of the past which have not been integrated into language and historical narrative, and therefore contain the potential for its disruption. Müller’s Mauser production functions as a memory play that resists the linearization of history by the West German victors of the Cold War. In another interview, Müller argued that the proliferation of published ideas, and their entering discourse, eradicates resistant impulses, exterminating intellectual minorities by bulldozing them into normality (1991:90). Perhaps this explains why after a period of high visibility as a political commentator and critic, Müller returned to his work as a director and spoke through texts that invite and require the work of memory and interpretation, rather than performing those acts himself. Christa Wolf, meanwhile, undertook the task of bringing to language what she had admittedly “forgotten”: her brief, and rather inconsequential, involvement with the

3

See also Case’s discussion of the use of theatrical metaphors and non-verbal, nonnarrative performance strategies in regard to the pieces Ulrike Meinhof and Wendewut performed by Johann Kresnik’s tanztheater.

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secret police over thirty years earlier. That episode was ended when the Stasi lost interest in her as a talkative but insubstantial contributor of information. Wolf revealed the secret documents of her private life, first by permitting the publication of her Stasi files and the ensuing public debate around them, including many personal letters, and secondly, by publishing in book form her correspondence with Brigitte Reimann from 1964 to that writer’s death in 1974. That approach to the past did not lack a certain irony, considering Wolf’s engagement with “forgotten” radical romantics, especially Bettine von Arnim and Karoline Günderrode, who found themselves isolated in a post-revolutionary political culture.4 The historical parallels cannot be overlooked: like Günderrode and von Arnim, Wolf and Reimann found themselves increasingly at odds with the dominant culture, which defined itself as progressive and enlightened. Like these nineteenth-century women, they created a small network, a niche of trusted, like-minded thinkers and artists, but also strove to maintain a clear, personal sense of radical political beliefs. As Wolf’s letters illustrate, this sense of a political and social community which she shared with Reimann, who died of cancer at an early age, was coupled with a great deal of commitment, solidarity, and compassion for others less prominent and less privileged than she was. The disclosure of these two writers’ personal, sometimes intimate letters, could be interpreted as an attempt by Wolf to whitewash herself, to restore moral and political integrity to her tainted public image, and count herself on the side of the “five million resistance fighters” rather than the “five million Stalinists” that one bitter joke reported in post-Wall (East) Germany. Rather, I would suggest, the book eschews such binaries, and illustrates how politics split between the official discourses and theatrics of the Party and its institutions, and the not-quite-private sphere of personal relations located in the homes, circles, and cliques of like-minded interlocutors. Early on in GDR history, the domestic sphere thus became a site charged with civic consciousness and responsibility; Wolf herself indicated that for her, the 22nd Party congress in 1965, at which she spoke out against censorship of arts, and pressed for the de-Stalinization of the GDR, marked the point at which her political engagement turned towards “privatized” practices since public events and discourses no longer allowed disagreement and dissent. It was also the time when she and her husband became the targets of high-level Stasi surveillance which would continue until the 1980s.5 Wolf reinterpreted “repression” in a socio-political rather than a psychological sense. In recapitulating her silence and her forgetfulness, she also retains what silenced her and the knowledge enclosed in that silence which was a precondition to survival. In returning to a past that had become “alien” to her (Vinke, 1993:158), and to her dead friend Brigitte Reimann, she takes literally Müller’s exhortation to “accept the presence of the dead as dialogue partners, or dialogue disrupters—the future arises only out of the dialogue with the dead” (Rouse, 1993:66).

4

In an interview, she elaborated on the pertinence of the romantics’ writing to the present situation in the GDR. See Wolf 1982. 5 When the Stasi files became publicly available, 43 volumes existed, documenting Wolf’s surveillance until the 1980s. Files generated during the 1980s were destroyed, but Wolf believes she continued to be observed during that decade.

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The diverging careers of Wolf and Müller shed light on the complex culturalpolitical dynamics in post-Wall Germany. Müller, a witty albeit cryptic public speaker working in a public medium, conformed to a model of dissidence informed by the public/private split familiar from bourgeois societies, since it equates “political” criticism with public intervention and dissent. Although Müller’s difficulties in having his work published and produced ended only in the early 1980s, he was assured an income as a dramaturge and granted travel privileges much earlier. Wolf’s work, on the other hand, has been pre-eminent in the exploration of socialist subjectivity, sometimes using autobiographical raw material for the painstaking dissection of psychological mechanisms of inhibition, conformity, complicity, and authoritarianism as legacies from a childhood in the Third Reich and adolescence under Stalinism. The focus of her work and its prose form are associated with the “private,” and were praised for their subtlety and cunning, for fostering civic skills such as reading-between-the-lines and divining a dissident subtext, and, not least, the smarts to procure her books at all. However, since the summer of 1990, Wolf’s personal politics have earned her the accusation of moral cowardice and lack of Zivilcourage. The headline “Who lost their Innocence…and who didn’t” (Vinke, 1993:212), published in March 1993, also calls attention to the gender dynamics of the Stasidebate. In many ways, Wolf, came to embody the increasingly feminized GDR in the West German media—first as the “better half” of the divided nation, the one that clung to the utopia of a better future, and then as the fallen woman who disappoints all hopes for ideological innocence. The venomous reactions of some Western leftists to the GDR’s demise illustrate this scenario with particular poignancy, and call attention to the gender dynamics of social change, in which women can only be objects, not the subjects of revolution. Moreover, Wolf is a well-known feminist, whose essay “In Touch” (1978) became something of a socialist feminist manifesto. Her novel Kassandra (1984) was regarded as a feminist classic in both Germanies. The devaluation of Wolf’s moral integrity or aesthetic accomplishments, and by extension the denigration of the GDR’s culture in toto, legitimized—and was symptomatic of—the larger political and economic restructuring of recent years, which has involved the reassertion of traditional gender divisions in society, women’s reconfinement to the home, and men’s financial superiority as breadwinners. The GDR, which long prided itself on its doctrine of gender equality, has gradually been stripped of socio-political measures which greatly benefited women. The curtailing of women’s rights, exemplified by the 1993 abortion bills and rulings, signals not only the triumph of patriarchal structures and principles which had been somewhat mitigated by egalitarianism, but also the victory of capitalism over socialism. Many enraged letters to the editors of those newspapers conducting the Literaturstreit interpreted the devaluation of East German Literature as a tandemoperation with the social, economic, and ideological dismantling of the socialist state. Both Müller and Wolf recognized that function of the public debates surrounding their work; while the former intervened predominantly at the level of cultural administration and policy-making, the latter contested the Western tendency to deny the East German population aesthetic competency and moral integrity through a psychologizing approach to her work and biography. For Wolf, that task was complicated by some critics’ call for an “autonomous” art which her work

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vehemently resists. These authors’ responses to the Literaturstreit sketch out two possibilities of coming to terms with the past—a task that is at risk of being twice deferred in the last fifty years. References Anz, Thomas (1991) “Es geht nicht um Christa Wolf”; Der Literaturstreit im vereinten Deutschland. Munich: Edition Spangenberg Benjamin, Walter (1955) Geschichtsphilosophische Thesen. Schriften I. Edited by Theodor Adorno. Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp Case, Sue-Ellen (1994) Acting Out the State Agenda: Berlin, 1993. Forthcoming in Festschrift for Ruby Cohn Huyssen, Andreas (1991) After the Wall: The Failure of German Intellectuals. New German Critique, 52, 109–143. Maaz, Hans-Joachim (1990) Der Gefühlsstau: Ein Psychogramm der DDR. Berlin: Argon Müller, Heiner (1990a) Germania. Translated by Bernard and Caroline Schütze. Ed. Sylvére Lotringer. New York: Semiotext(e) ——(1990b) Zur Lage der Nation. Frankfurt/Main: Rotbuch ——(1991) Jenseits der Nation. Frankfurt/Main: Rotbuch Rouse, John (1993) Heiner Müller and the Politics of Memory. Theatre Journal, 45, 1 (March), 65–74 Vinke, Hermann (1993) Editor. Akteneinsicht Christa Wolf: Zerrspiegel in der Gegenwartsliteratur von Frauen. Reinbeck: Rowohlt Wolf, Christa (1992) Culture Is What You Experience—An Interview with Christa Wolf. New German Critique, 27, 89–100 ——(1990) Reden im Herbst. Berlin and Weimar: Aufbau Wolf, Christa and Brigitte Reiman (1993) Sei Gegrüßt und Lebe: Eine Freundschaft in Briefen 1964–1973. Berlin and Weimar: Aufbau

Viewer Beware: Reception of East German Theatre Marna King

In order to understand the often conflicting critical evaluations of any specific theater production in the post-Wall theater of the former German Democratic Republic, one must realize that the knowledge, political and cultural background and/or bias of the individual audience member viewing the production will greatly affect that audience member’s recognition of signification as well as his or her critical assessment of the GDR theater experience. As long as the societies of the East and West of Germany remain distinct, their theaters will keep a distinct identity. It follows that reception of received meaning will continue to be distinct as well. Six theater productions in the 1991–92 seasons of two important theaters in East Berlin were examined: for the Deutsches Theater—Karate-Billi Returns by Pohl and Hamlet/Maschine by Shakespeare/Müller; for the Maxim-Gorki-Theater—Mein Kampf by Tabori, Death of a Salesman, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Twelfth Night. KEY WORDS: Lang, Müller, Tabori, Miller, Pohl, Shakespeare For some years I have sought to decode the manner in which the theater of West Germany communicates contemporary meaning to its audiences by using an aesthetic language which invites the spectator to associate multi-layered significations with both text and stage images. In the summer of 1992 I focussed my on-site explorations for the first time on the theater of the former German Democratic Republic. I was not surprised to find the theaters of East Germany using a similar contextual language to speak to present issues of importance to them. However, I discovered that the associational signs which spoke indirectly to the audience members were often couched in visual or aesthetic terms beyond my frame of reference. My usual on-site informational sources for increased understanding—professional theater criticisms and the private opinions of German theater artists and scholars—did not clear up the questions I had concerning specific productions I had seen. While in Germany I asked the questions but the answers received conflicted one with the other. Gradually the reasons for such contradictions became clearer: the knowledge, political and cultural background, and/or bias of the individual audience member greatly affected that member’s recognition of signification as well as his or her critical assessment of

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the GDR theater experience. Upon my return to the U.S., I compared major East and West German newspaper and magazine reviews for productions I had seen in East Berlin. The conflicting viewpoints were then cross-referenced to facts and opinions in other contemporary sources. My own impressions and staging notes of each production served as a sounding board for the differing evaluations before me. Few plays had as yet been written in 1992 on problems related to the period of readjustment following the East German revolution, so the three almost simultaneous premieres of Karate-Billi kehrt zurück, (Karate-Billy Returns), first in Hamburg1 and then in Stuttgart2 and Munich3, became a singular West German theater event. In the eleven months between the world premiere in Hamburg on 16 May 1991 and the premiere of the play at the Deutsches Theater in East Berlin,4 Karate-Billi kehrt zurück was staged in twenty West German cities. Although written and first directed by the West German dramatist Klaus Pohl, the play centered on an issue with which East Germans were struggling, the discovery of unknown informers living in their midst. Karate-Billi, a GDR decathlon athlete and gold medal contender, had been wrongly accused of planning to defect to the West during the next Olympics. Pohl begins Billi’s story a few weeks after the fall of the Berlin Wall. He has just been released from thirteen years of incarceration in the insane asylum of his small provincial town. Billi’s dogged and vengeful search for the truth gradually reveals that the blame is shared by family, friends, church, and local political figures. Each of the guilty, unbeknownst to the others, and for his or her own self-interest, had earlier collaborated in the false accusations which have ruined Billi’s life. Criticism in the West split into two opposing camps. Deliberately written as a comedy-grotesque in the manner of a television psycho-thriller, the play was regarded by West German critics as either a crude and simplistic treatment of a sensitive post-Wall issue or a brilliant drama written in reportage style. The West German weekly Die Zeit stated, Whoever regards Pohl as a dramatist who treats only surfaces and faults him for an inability to point out human abyss, has not recognized the abysses of the Pohl surfaces…. Karate-Billi kehrt zurück is a tragedy, a great play. It is possible that it is the long-awaited “great new German play.” (Detje, 1991)5 Regardless of literary merit, the play touches a vital nerve in the former GDR. In 1989 the records of the GDR state security police, known as the Stasi, revealed that domestic files were being kept on 5.5 million East Germans. In a population of 17

1

Karate-Billi kehrt zurück. By Klaus Pohl. Dir. Klaus Pohl. Set des. Peter Pabst. With Josef Bierbichler. Malersaal, Deutsches Schauspielhaus, Hamburg. 16 May 1991. 2 Karate-Billi kehrt zurück. By Klaus Pohl. Dir. Jürgen Bosse. Set des. Arno Breuers. With Matthias Kniesback. Kleines Haus, Württembergisches Staatstheater, Stuttgart. 17 May 1991. 3 Karate-Billi kehrt zurück. By Klaus Pohl. Dir. Roland Schafer. Set des. Bernd Damovsky. With Peter Kramer. Prinzregententheater, Bayerisches Staatsschauspiel, Munich. 24 May 1991. 4 Karate-Billi kehrt zurück. By Klaus Pohl. Dir. Alexander Lang. Set des. Caroline Neven DuMont. With Jōrg Gudzuhn. Deutsches Theater, Berlin. 17 April 1992. 5 Phrase quoted in review was unidentified. All translations are my own.

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million, 85,000 citizens were full time spies with an additional 109,000 informers contributing raw data from time to time (Borneman, 157). Just the announcement of the inclusion of Karate-Billi kehrt zurück on the 1991–92 season at the prestigious Deutsches Theater in East Berlin caused a minor sensation. Even more attention centered on the production because its scheduled director was to be the GDR expatriate Alexander Lang, formerly of the Deutsches Theater itself. In April 1992, a few days prior to the Deutsches Theater premiere of Karate-Billi kehrt zurück, the West German theater monthly Theater heute published an impromptu postperformance interview (von Becker, 1992) with three unnamed theater personnel: an Intendant or chief director, one of the stage directors, and the chief dramaturge of “one of the great theaters in the former GDR.” The anonymous trio did not talk with the reviewer about the play performed that evening; rather they wished to voice their objections to Klaus Pohl’s Karate-Billi kehrt zurück. Following a question in which the reviewer asked why this popular play was not shown in the East came the anguished answer of the Intendant: Because we are wounded here. Our nerves lay exposed. We cannot impose this on our public. The play, in which all but a West German banker are involved [with wrongdoing], suggests the totality of guilt in a society, which is not true. We are not a nation of Stasi spies! Making a new point the director declared, “In truth the problem is that such a play must really be written by an East [German] author!” The director’s last statement was his most emphatic: We are now experiencing this power and money and idea transfer from the West to the East in all areas of life. The theater has always been a special free space for us. We will not now accept a colonization of our own themes by the West! Lang presented Karate-Billi kehrt zurück devoid of its crime novel embellishments, embellishments which the text and the first three FRG productions had stressed.6 Theater heute reported that in Lang’s production, Billi is no “bloody avenger [who] holds a trial, rather a tormented man seeking the wrong-doers amongst people who were his friends and acquaintances” (Wille, 1992:33). The death of the Stasi spy for whose murder Billi will be re-committed takes place unnoticed behind a group of collaborators (see Fig. 4). Whereas the characterizations of the townspeople in the trio of premiere productions were broadly drawn and simplified, in Lang’s production the characterizations were exactly drawn without degenerating into comic stereotypes of provincial East German Kleinbürger (petty bourgeois). In contrast it was the West German banker, in town to look for business prospects, who was caricatured. The East German critic for Neue Zeit described his continual presence at the tavern as an observer who is a “cold colonialist”: “The banker moves carefully about gathering information on that which is a new profit terrain, with a jovial smile which is never embarrassed…. He views the townspeople as experimental objects who give interesting insights into the abyss of human existence” (Petzold, 1992). The setting was stripped down to a spatial environment with actors and minimal furniture

6 Both Hamburg and Munich productions of Karate-Billi kehrt zurück were filmed for German television. Deutsches Schauspielhaus production by Nord-deutschen Rundfunk, 1992; and Prinzregententheater production by Bayerischen Rundfunk, 1992.

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Figure 1 Klaus Pohl’s Karate Billy Returns at the Deutsches Theater in Berlin, directed by former GDR emigré Alexander Lang in his own post-Wall return debut (1992). Photo: Christian Brachwitz

set against a sky cyclorama, thus further drawing focus to the almost still figures in the playing space. The very fast, almost toneless quality of reportage dialogue as well as the minimal amount of stage and character movement robbed the play of any emotional force for me. My own expectations for confrontational drama, formed from reading the text, were totally thwarted. I was confused by an abstracted setting which bore no relation to the village Gaststätte (combination restaurant/ tavern) with which I was familiar in West Germany. In Acts I and III functional white chairs and tables devoid of identifying characteristics were placed in space. Drinks were served from a separate bar unit, covered in a tasteless, tufted black vinyl, its fittings and fixtures in shiny brass. The juxtaposition of the scenic units seemed a careless mixture of furniture styles devoid of associational meaning. Yet, given what I knew of Lang’s directing style from the productions of his I had seen in Western Germany, what may seem arbitrary should never be read as accidental. The locale of Act II, the interior of an apartment, was represented by a bed placed in front of a free-standing folded wall unit, which was white. This signification also seemed careless delineation. A white transparent screen used as a partial ceiling bore down on the individuals beneath each environment. I questioned others who had seen the production for their interpretation of the scenographic message. None of my American or West German colleagues had considered the minimal settings as anything other than functional and abstracted. I found the missing key to understanding the production from the East German perspective when I talked with East German dramaturge Dr. Thomas Engels. He

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explained that it was clearly evident to East Germans that both the production style and the stage setting were deliberate, ironic references to ill-researched, hastily produced surface treatments of East German problem dramas which one found on West German television (Engels, 1992). Lang has sent a message in slave language to his East German audience over the heads of the West German audience in attendance. Sklavensprache or slave language was developed in the GDR as an indirect, uncensored means of communication to its highly sensitized audience by means of “images and signs which could be read as a critical or a subversive action” (Rühle, 1992:47). Neither the East or West German reviews registered cognition of the device. This proved to be a blessing to Lang who as a citizen and expatriate of the former GDR was now co-Intendant of the State Theater of West Berlin. Lang as director and the Deutsches Theater as the premiere theater of the former GDR were both situated in very sensitive positions vis-a-vis the German/German relations by producing Karate-Billi kehrt zurück at the Deutsches Theater. The following are samplings of critical commentary from the West German Press, commentary which was quite favorable to Lang’s directorial approach and to the production in general. Sender Freies Berlin: As long as these East German dramatists feel too bewildered to create a more complex picture of entanglements and deformations in their socialist society, this remains an important, useful, and timely contribution to a burning discussion (Ritter, n.d.). Suddeutsche Zeitung: And at this point in time Alexander Lang does the only correct thing. He directs the showdown with a cold hand even when the heart is hot. He sees no occasion for sentimentality. So he succeeds with the right play in the right place…Lang is aiming at the responsibility of the individual, at guilt more than at the damage done [to Billi]. (Schaper, 1992). Reviews from the East Berlin press echoed the sentiments expressed by the anonymous trio of theater artists in the April issue of Theater heute while severely criticizing the worth of the play. At the same time, Lang’s handling of the “questionable” material and the acting of the world-renowned ensemble of the Deutsches Theater received very favorable mention. The development of the Deutsches Theater production of Hamlet/Maschine7 was directly affected by the actual events of the East German revolution. Rehearsals began on 20 September 1989. The Wall fell on 9 November 1989. The play premiered on 24 March 1990 just after the free elections of 18 March in which the GDR citizens voted for reunification with the Federal Republic of Germany. The eight-hour production, which was directed by Heiner Müller, combined Shakespeare’s Hamlet, as translated by Müller and Manfred Karge, with Müller’s own

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Hamlet/Maschine by William Shakespeare/Heiner Müller. Dir. Heiner Müller. Set des. Erich Wonder. With Ulrich Mühe. Deutsches Theater, Berlin. 24 March 1990.

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Hamletmaschine. East German critics saw themselves as GDR citizens and their past, present and future history reflected in this Endzeit or end-of-the-world production. As such they embraced it. The following quotations from newspaper reviews suggest that meaning and effect of Hamlet/Maschine to a former GDR citizen. Der Morgen: The hero bears the burden of history. Denmark is everywhere and here [in the GDR] above all…. We are in the world of crumbling dictators and of a demise that brings forth a new disaster. [Fortinbras appears in Act V as a businessman wearing a gold mask and carrying a briefcase, thus signifying the capitalistic takeover from the West]. Heiner Müller gives a slow tempo to Shakespeare’s story; at the same time a heavy, burdensome calm from which comes animalistic screams; but in the midst of it [the screaming] is an almost lively cheerfulness, a sarcastic humor of wisdom and of recognition. (Funke, 1990) Neue Zeit: Most magnificently, Ulrich Mühe plays this Hamlet of tormented intellectuality and of hesitant action without youthful fire and without nobleness, physically drawn into himself, brooding and awkward, an anti-hero given only fragments of characterization but one of strong charisma always in the center of attention. (Ulrike, 1990) Berliner Zeitung: The intellectual center of the production proved ultimately not to be Hamlet as a play and a character but rather Hamletmaschine as a total negation and its author who in this negation articulates his disgust of the world and his self-hatred; who will cooperate no further…(Schumacher, 1990b) And again in Der Morgen: “A great production about which there is much still to be said, to be written and to be argued” (Funke, 1990). The East German critics realized that reception of the production would be difficult for the outsider. Berliner Zeitung: In September of 1989 when Heiner Müller began rehearsals in the Deutsches Theater, associations of being imprisoned, of torpidity, of perversion of power and of the impotence of intellectuals could still be a reality. With 9 November these allusions lost their foundation, thus now it must be viewed as a work of memory. (Schumacher, 1990b)

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Junge Welt: For above all Müller directs images as great metaphors of human history…. But the production needs a willing spectator who surrenders to the projected associations, better still a [East German] spectator who relives them. (Lehmann, 1990) The outsider, West German or otherwise, who viewed this performance could gain much from this personal and very painful Heiner Müller production. Critical judgment need not have been suspended but framed in the context of the purpose of the production. To do otherwise would seem arrogant, given the particular history in which the production was shaped. Indeed, West German theater historian Günther Rühle framed his criticism in context when he stated in Was soll das Theater?, “Heiner Müller’s staging of Hamlet was the last great [production] of the GDR. The phantasmagoria of a downfall” (Rühle, 1992:47). The Berlin Tagesspiegel was the only West German daily newspaper to recognize context as the defining frame for the critical evaluation of the production. It flatly stated, This East Berlin day in the theater is to be measured against its own intentions: it offers the view of the poet Heiner Müller on Shakespeare, on theater and on his, that is, our own times which he (as Hamlet) sees fallen out of joint. (Grach, 1990) Unfortunately critical opinion in West German theater reviews was affected by more than a refusal to place the production within its current history. Criticism of Hamlet/ Maschine has been caught up in what is known as “the Christa Wolf debate”, a political controversy over charges that prominent GDR authors had collaborated with their corrupt regime. (See the article by Katrin Sieg in this issue.) Heiner Müller was the other GDR literary icon placed in the center of the firestorm in this controversy. The fact that the Frankfurt am Main Experimenta 6 dedicated its entire proceedings to the Heiner Müller dramatic canon only added further irritation to critics inclined to attack him on political grounds. Seventy productions of his play would be seen by 20, 000 spectators in the 17 days between 19 May and 4 June 1990. Even one of the most enthusiastic of supporters of the event, the West German theater critic Peter Iden, admitted that total concentration on Müller’s plays resulted in an “unbearable exhaustion” of those plays for all of the participants (Iden, 1990). The following excerpts from West German reviews give the general sense of the vitriolic nature of the Western critical reception to Hamlet/Maschine. Die Zeit: Heiner Müller’s Denmark is a collection of the depressed, the living dead and ghostly pale crawlers. A theater of hanging heads, of heavy eyelids, of constricted throats, paralyzed tongues and bowed shoulders. An authoritarian state and its subjects in the last undramatic gasp of agony. Even though the characters of the play are not identified directly as Honecker and the other GDR politicians, “Heiner Müller’s Denmark is quickly unmasked as a twin of the GDR” (Henrichs, 1990). Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung: [The production] has the effect of a last statement from the besieged bunker of GDR theater, a winter battle against whatever may come…. Heiner Müller does not think,

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let alone think in opposition. He is no dramatist and naturally it follows he is no stage director. He is a lyric poet. He works viscerally (Stadelmaier, 1990) Die Zeit: Müller’s theater has only an attitude, but with no [theatrical] means. It has Bob Wilson’s measure of time but not Wilson’s somnabulant sense of pauses, rhythms and emptiness. It lacks a plan as does the theater of Peter Zadek, but nowhere does it have Zadek’s chaotic power. (Henrichs, 1990) Suddeutsche Zeitung: In this production, “Human beings become theses. Only rarely are the actors able to do more than demonstrate, point an accusing finger” (Sucher, 1990). In the radio review by Sender Freies Berlin the receiver provided a laundry list of classic moments in Hamlet/Maschine which are no more than “embarrassing theater effects” (Werner, 1990). Theater heute: If Hamlet is shown at the beginning in an already hopeless situation, can the other questions of the drama be of interest?…. The crime, the family intrigue, the tragedy of revenge and love are weakened by Müller’s End-of-the-world reading of the drama…. This production reflects only—very thoroughly—a narrow section of the world: it is our hope that the view will broaden again. Until that time, however, there exists in [this production for] the Deutsches Theater a lot of decorative drama depleted of significance which runs on at marathon length. (Wille, 1990:33) Die Zeit ends its review musing on the thought that “For the large Heiner Müller community the evening may be a gripping event, or at least a joyful torture” (Henrichs, 1990), implying that for the rest of the audience the eight hours were completely wasted. Reviewers East and West could agree on but two points: the extraordinary performance of Ulrich Mühe as Hamlet and the excessive length of the production. The abrupt insertion of George Tabori’s Mein Kampf 8 into its 1990 season was a deliberate response on the part of the East Berlin Maxim-Gorki-Theater to the sudden rise of anti-Semitism in East Germany after the fall of the Berlin Wall. In December of 1989 the election of the half-Jewish lawyer Gregor Gysi as party secretary of the newly reformed Communist Party triggered the backlash (Merschmeier, 1990). Unlike West Germans, the citizens of East Germany had not faced their latent antiSemitism after World War II. The anti-fascist ideology of the ruling Communist Party made it possible for citizens to avoid a recognition of their own anti-Semitism by attributing all anti-Jewish sentiment to the former fascists on the other side of the “protective” Wall. Following the 18 March free elections, the new government responded to the problem by admitting “for the first time the GDR’s joint responsibility for the Third Reich’s persecution of Jews, and apologized to the Jewish

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Mein Kampf. By George Tabori. Dir. Thomas Langhoff. Set des. Pieter Hein. MaximGorki-Theater, Berlin. 2 March 1990.

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community for the anti-Semitism practiced by communist East Germany as a result of its strong pro-Arab orientation” (McElvoy, 1992:213). George Tabori, originally a Jewish expatriate from Hungary, has been an influencial voice in bringing Jewish issues before the theater public since his return to West Germany. His highly political Mein Kampf had first been honored in Theatertreffen 88, the prestigious West Berlin theater festival, after its controversial world premiere at the Akademie-Theater in Vienna, Austria—another country still grappling with latent anti-Semitism. As a dramatist, Tabori uses an outrageous mixture of comedic and grotesque techniques to communicate with an audience. In Mein Kampf he mixes fantasy and history by placing the young Adolf Hitler as an aspiring student artist in Vienna on thè eve of his interview with the Academy of Fine Art. Poor and exceedingly provincial, the untalented young country rube is forced to seek lodgings in a male night shelter or flop house situated beneath a slaughter house. One of the inhabitants of the shelter, the Jewish Bible-seller Schlomo, willfully takes on the impossible task of reshaping this bundle of unpleasant contradictions later known as Hitler. Jewish stories, jokes, slapstick, grotesquery, and dream mingle in absurd combinations as the play progresses and digresses. The director Thomas Langhoff deftly mixes the theatrical means so that Hitler’s many faces as bully, coward, bigot, egotist, manic depressive, hypochondriac, and child are singularly exposed. This “psychogramm” of the future monster can be seen in its embryonic and human stages. The audience is not allowed to dismiss his behavior as demonic and distant. There is some Hitler in all of us (Pietzsch, 1990). The farcical form drives the fun forward while dashes of the salt and pepper of realism and grotesquery enhance it digressions. Meaning is communicated more through imagery than language: Schlomo reshaping Hitler’s hair and mustache; a 14-year-old German prostitute dressed as a nun cutting Schlomo’s toenails; the walls being painted brown by Hitler’s robot-like uniformed followers at the beginning of the dream sequence of Act V; Schlomo’s pet chicken Mitzi being butchered and cooked during a lecture demonstration by Himmlischt, the mad SS death camp doctor, while Schlomo is tied to a bed with his own muffler; the sensuous Frau Death leaving arm in arm with Hitler at the end of the production. Langhoff’s courageous production premiered on 2 March 1990 at a time when the atmosphere in East Berlin was quite hostile toward Jews. The critical response of the East German press was overwhelmingly favorable, but cautious in the manner in which it handled anti-Semitism. Most critics discussed the issue only within the confines of the play and the production. Initially only the Berliner Zeitung (Schumacher, 1990a) and Wochenpost (Pfelling, 1990) referred to the obvious linkage of the play to the anti-Jewish sentiment in their present day society. Since Mein Kampf premiered before reunification, productions in the former GDR were not reviewed in West Germany on a regular basis. I could find no West German reviews except in Theater heute which praised Langhoff and the production in glowing terms. It seems logical to assume a positive reception in the West given the fact that shortly after its premiere, Langhoff’s Mein Kampf was selected as an entry in West Berlin’s Theatertreffen 90.

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In the spring of 1992, just two years after the East Germans chose reunification and the capitalistic free market system as a way of life, the Maxim-Gorki-Theater mounted two productions which examined the negative aspects of lives dedicated to the pursuit of success as promised in the American Dream. Both were American psychological dramas from mid-century: Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman9 and Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?10 Recent translations of the plays had made their messages more accessible to the German sensibility. In the summer of 1992, soon after Death of a Salesman premiered, official government figures cited 14–17% unemployment in the former GDR while the East Berlin newspaper Berliner Zeitung cited figures closer to 30–40% (Schölling, 1993:7). The East German reviews linked the play directly to the ever increasing problem of mass unemployment in the former GDR as did the program and one-page handout of the Maxim-Gorki itself (Maxim-Gorki-Theater, 1992). However, the production focusses, as did Miller himself, on the compulsion of success—to be Number One— demonstrating how such blinkered vision often leads to a distortion of values and ultimately to the destruction of the provider and his/her family. The West German director Siegfried Bühr does not update or relocate the drama, it remains situated as written in the America of the late 1940s and early 1950s. Perhaps contrary to GDR expectation, the complexities of the play are not forced into a narrow critique of capitalism; rather, Bühr slowly reveals the absurd consequences of Willy’s quest for success with all its psychological ramifications. Contrary to my expectation, the play and its characters were framed in comic terms, an approach the dramaturgical team pointed out had been recommended by Miller himself were he ever to direct the play (Maxim-Gorki-Theater, 1992) The extreme height and depth of the playing space emphasized the alienation between characters, each of whom are struggling to maintain human contact (see Fig. 5). The excellence of the directing combined with the remarkable characterizations provided by an acting ensemble renowned for its ability to portray psychological realism should have insured the success of the production. However, the play had never been presented in East Germany: this was perhaps part of the reason critical opinion in the East was so divided. Two of the four reviews, Neues Deutschland (Ebert, 1992) and the Märkische Allgemeine (Paul, 1992) enthusiastically praised all facets of the production. The West German critics who were much more familiar with the genre of American realism universally praised the presentation. The two remaining reviews from East Berlin, Berliner Zeitung (Friedrich, 1992) and Junge Welt (Goyker, 1992), condemned the West German director, “imported” to teach them about capitalism, for having nothing to say. Martin Meltke, one of the younger East German directors, reduces the usual high decibel psychological slugfest of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? to a deft but deadly “Boulevard” drama. George delivers his taunting thrusts undefeated, his more

9

Death of a Salesman. By Arthur Miller. Trans. Florian Hopf and Volker Schlöndorff. Dir. Siegfried Bühr. Set des. Eberhard Keienburg. Maxim-Gorki-Theater, Berlin, 23 Feb. 1992. 10 Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? By Edward Albee. Trans. Alissa and Martin Walser. Dir. Martin Meltke. Set and cost. Mattias Kupfernagel. Maxim-Gorki-Theater, Berlin. 9 April 1992.

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Figure 2 From left to right, Wolfgang Hosfeld as Charley, Klaus Manchen as Willy Loman, and Gottfried Richter as Uncle Ben in West German director Siegfried Bühr’s production of Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller (Maxim-Gorki-Theater, Berlin, 1992). Photo: Barbara Köppe

volatile strength in contrast to Martha’s colder, more methodological approach. At the beginning and end of the evening of skirmishing, each partner allows the other to see an exhausted yet still mutual love. The stress on the sense of the drama over its emotional theatrics underlined both the comedy of the encounters and the moral vacuum present in the text (see Fig. 6). While the text of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf locates the drama in the American college town of Carthage, the imagery and character delineation in the Maxim-Gorki production places the action in present day East Berlin. George and Martha are part of its intellectual elite while Nick is identified through his clothing and attitude as one of the crass, opportunistic “Wessis” (West Germans) who has just taken a newly vacated academic professorship in a former GDR university. The contextual signification refers to the issue of contract renewal in GDR universities and academies agreed to by the FRG and the GDR in the Contract of Unification. All personnel in former GDR public institutions were subject to contract review after unification. Contract renewal became dependent on the regional governments in the former GDR, thus on a conservative pro-West German reading of the employee’s political and academic record. Student and faculty protest over the many unfair decisions went largely unheeded (Marcuse, 1991). In the Maxim-Gorki production the inferiority of the younger couple is readily apparent from Nick and Honey’s first entrance. They step into a close, inhospitable room painted an unflattering color of green. The mauve and pinkish tones of their clothing appear immediately garish and unsuitable. The history versus science debate which George initiates with Nick in Act I also gains new significance when viewed from the East/West polarity. It was interesting to note that only the West German

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Figure 3 Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf at the Maxim-Gorki-Theater in Berlin, directed by Siegfried Bühr (1992). Photo: Barbara Köppe

press mentioned the contextual references to both East/West connotations, while neither side referred to the problem of contract review and replacement in East German universities and academies. Reception on both sides of the now invisible border registered an unqualified appreciation for an excellent and thought-provoking evening in the theater. Still to be seen in the 1991–1992 theater season at the Maxim-Gorki was Martin Meltke’s staging of Twelfth Night11 with an all female cast. Meltke re-staged the play he had directed in 1988 in the small Eastern city of Greifswald as a deliberate aesthetic provocation to provincial Communist Party officials. (Protest through theatrical means, in this instance labeled by Theater der Zeit as “sarcastic art-anarchy,” had been a viable avenue of protest for GDR theater artists since socialist art was defined for them by the Soviets); see Christoph Funke’s essay in this issue. After party officials walked out of the Greifswald Twelfth Night, the theater management was forced to remove the play from the season because the production was a violation of a drama which was “part of the cultural possession of the bourgeois humanistic heritage” (Fensch, 1990:69–70). Although there was no longer a need to protest through anarchic aesthetics, another aesthetic statement of the original production, that of the scenic environment, continued to ring with an ironic truth. Former GDR

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Twelfth Night. By William Shakespeare. Dir. Martin Meltke. Set and cost. Anne Schwerdtle. Maxim-Gorki-Theater, Berlin. 30 May 1991.

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Figure 4 Martin Meltke’s staging of Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare: East Germany as a waiting room where nothing works. From left to right, Lotte Loebinger as Feste the Fool, Anne-Liese Paetzold as Sir Toby Belch, and Monika Lennartz as Olivia. (Maxim-Gorki-Theatre, Berlin, 1991). Photo: Barbara Köppe

citizens could still get perverse enjoyment out of the scenographic imagery which signified Illyria. Critics from both sides of the Wall identified the playing space as an East German public waiting room in “progressive decay,” a place where nothing worked. An old refrigerator, a dysfunctional radiator and other debris littered the shabby playing space. The gleeful addition of the urinal transposed the space into an even ruder fantasy (see Fig. 7). The ragbag vintage clothing worn by the female characters added to the utopian parody while the commentary provided by the sartorial style of the male characters sought a new target of ridicule. The actresses playing the male characters postured and swaggered about in power images identical to the male macho style so popular with East German theatermakers in both the East and West of Germany in the 1991–92 season: overlong outer overcoats with exaggerated shoulders and wide, broad-brimmed felt hats. Beneath the outerwear were worn the equally exaggerated “power” suits with vests. The critics from East Berlin enjoyed the antic quality the casting gave to the various relationships in the play but they spent little time analyzing those relationships. The following quote from the Berliner Zeitung is typical: “By casting women, Meltke destroys the last certainty…the magical confusions about reality and appearance can no longer be presented” (Funke, 1991). Feminism as a contextual reference to issues in former GDR society seemed off limits for discussion in the reviews. The Berliner Zeitung alone among the East Berlin newspapers mentioned the ending as worthy of thought (Schumacher, 1991). In the final moments of the production Viola returns to an empty stage feeling uncomfortable in a rather

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awkward dress. As the curtain falls she is callously summoned from offstage by an impatient Orsino obviously used to treating females as unequal. Western critics, unaware of the production history of the Greifswald staging, enjoyed the parody but found the directorial intentions confusing. The same critics attached little importance to this production while the Berliner Zeitung of East Berlin awarded the MaximGorki Twelfth Night its annual critics’ prize. As long as their societies remain distinct, the theaters of East and West Germany will keep a distinct identity. As Günther Rühle put it in his preface to Was soll das Theater?, “[officially], the theaters of the FRG as those of the GDR are no more, but the separate characteristics of the two theater cultures and their subliminal conflicts will remain visible for a long time” (Rühle, 1992:8). It follows that received meanings will continue to be distinct as well. References Becker, Peter von (1992) Wir sind kein Volk von Stasispitzeln! Interview of anonymous East Berlin theater personnel. Theater Heute, 4, p. 35 Borneman, John (1991) After the Wall: East Meets West in the New Berlin. New York: Basic Books, Inc. Detje, Robin (1991) Der Dichter als Hund. Review of Hamburg Karate-Billi kehrt zurück and Recklinghausen Die Schöne Fremde, both by Klaus Pohl. Die Zeit, 31 May Ebert, Gerhart (1992) Lernen lernen und nochmals…. Review of Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller. Neues Deutschland, 25 February Engels, Thomas (1992) Personal interview by Marna King, 3 July Fensch, Helmut (1990) Was? Ihr? Wollt? Review of Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare. Theater der Zeit, September, pp. 69–70 Funke, Christoph (1990) Last der Menschheits-Geschichte. Review of Berlin Hamlet/ Maschine by William Shakespeare/Heiner Müller. Der Morgen, 27 March ——(1991) Traumhafte Verwirrung im fremden Illyrien. Review of Twelfth Night. Der Morgen, 3 June Friedrich, Detlef (1992) Das langatmige Sterben des Handlungsreisenden. Review of Death of a Salesman. Berliner Zeitung, 26 February Goyker, Frank (1992) Exekutions—Qual eines Dramas. Review of Death of a Salesman. Junge Welt, 26 February Grach, Günther (1990) Ein deutscher Totentanz. Review of Berlin Hamlet/Maschine. Der Tagesspiegel, 27 March Henrichs, Benjamin (1990). Acht Stunden sind kein Theater. Review of Berlin Hamlet/ Maschine. Die Zeit 30 March Iden, Peter (1990) Am Ende. Review of Hamlet/Maschine (Deutsches Theater production at Frankfurt am Main experimenta 6). Frankfurter Rundschau, 6 June Lehmann, Gaby (1990) Ein Theater, das aufstört. Review of Berlin Hamlet/Maschine. Junge Welt, 27 March Marcuse, Peter (1991) “Wrapping Up” East Germany, The Nation, 30 December, pp. 846– 848 Maxim-Gorki-Theater (1992) Public information handout for Death of a Salesman, Berlin McElvoy, Anne (1992) The Saddled Cow: East Germany’s Life and Legacy. London: Faber & Faber

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Merschmeier, Michael (1990) Auf den Höhen der Tiefebene: Anmerkungen zur laufenden Saison am 20.March 1990. Review of Mein Kampf by George Tabori. Theater Heute, 5, pp. 7–10 Paul, Gerold (1992) Draussen vor unserer Tūr: das Exempel Willy Loman, Märkische Allgemeine, 27 February Petzold, Claudia (1992) Die Menschen sind grau geworden. Review of Berlin KarateBilli kehrt zurück. Neue Zeit, 21 April Pfelling, Liane (1990) Verbrecherpsychogramm. Review of Mein Kampf. Wochenpost, 30 March Pietzsch, Ingeborg (1990) Scherze eines Verzweifelten. Review of Mein Kampf. Theater der Zeit, May, pp. 9–10 Ritter, Heinz (n.d.) Review of Berlin karate-Billi kehrt zurück. Sender freies Berlin. Ruhle, Günther (1992) Was soll das Theater? Vol. 3 of Theater in unserer Zeit. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Schaper, Rüdiger (1992) Die Nacht der wahren Gesichter. Review of Berlin karate-Billi Kehrt zurück. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 22 April Schölling, Traute (1993) On with the Show? The Transition to Post-Socialist Theater in East Germany. Theatre Journal, 45, 1 March Schumacher, Ernst (1990a) Tödlicher Undank als der Liebe Lohn. Review of Mein Kampf. Berliner Zeitung, 7 March ——(1990b) Es ist Tollheit, aber mit Methode. Review of Berlin Hamlet/Maschine. Berliner Zeitung, 27 March ——(1991) Die Frauen haben die Hosen an. Review of Twelfth Night. Berliner Zeitung, 2 June Stadelmaier, Gerhard (1990) Hamletmaschinenbau. Review of Berlin Hamlet/Maschine. Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 26 March Sucher, C.Bernd (1990) Heiner Müller, Hamlet and Shakespeare. Review of Berlin Hamlet/Maschine. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 26 March Ulrich, Helmut (1990) Vision und Chiffre einer heillosen Welt. Review of Berlin Hamlet/ Maschine. Neue Zeit, 27 March Werner, Joachim (1990) Review of Berlin Hamlet/Maschine. Sender Freies Berlin, 25 March Wille, Franz (1990) Mühe hat’s gemacht. Review of Berlin Hamlet/Maschine. Theater Heute, 5, p. 33 ——(1992) Zurück in die Zukunft. Review of Berlin Karate-Billi kehrt zurück. Theater Heute, 6, p. 33

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Towards German Unity: Performance within the Threshold Rebecca Rovit

Using Berlin as an emblematic city for the changes within Eastern Germany since unification, this essay relies on the perspective of performance to examine the “social drama” of German unification. In its focus on the notion of the “threshold” as both a physical and symbolic locus for the transitional experience by which former East German citizens adapt their lives, the essay probes several levels of social masking: how the ex-GDR government staged itself; the use of social facade among GDR citizens; and the present dilemma for those citizens who now must adopt new roles and masks within the new Germany. By suggesting a disjunction between such everyday societal performances and the staged performances in contemporary German theaters, the essay links the future direction of the German theater to a redefinition of boundaries inherent in the offstage unification process. KEY WORDS: Germany, unification, performance, masking, identity “Whoever here thinks of the word border in conjunction with travel, thinks of that which stands between him and his destination: soldiers, barbed wire, the Wall, laws. The laws are the worst. They incriminate even our dreams. Whether we speak mathematically about values of limitation, use aesthetic or philosophical terms to describe the transgression of boundaries, or refer to the economic theory of limited utility, we immediately associate with this word [boundary, limit] its most obvious

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meaning: the uncrossable border that completely surrounds us” (Monika Maron, 1987).1 The East German writer Monika Maron, who was once privileged enough to traverse the intra-German border, commented on that border long before her fellow-citizens breached the Berlin Wall, thus rendering once-threatening boundaries powerless. Yet despite the removal of the Wall since 1989, the terrain which physically—and psychologically—separated former East and West Germans continues to define separate spaces for the Germans. This threshold, or limen, between East and West, which remains a metaphorical barrier, demonstrates that the grinding grudging movement towards unity is taking place in the rhythms and dimensions of performance art—the central thesis of this essay. For it is the “limen-as-place-wherethe-Wall-once-was”2 that signals German unification as a performance.3 Based on a year spent in Berlin in 1991–1992, this essay adopts a performance perspective through which to examine the “threshold” experience, a concept both emblematic of the ongoing physical transformation of East Germany and the psychological transition East Germans make as they discover that the roles which served them in the GDR are inadequate for life in unifying Germany. Ultimately, the process of boundary redefinition inherent in the offstage unification will shape the future direction that new German theater will take onstage. The main actors What must it feel like to an East Berliner, walking through the eastern half of a city whose ever-changing landscape is like a kaleidoscopic series of confusing stage sets? What cues do the shifting semiotics of Berlin signal to passersby who must derive a code of behavior from these signs? What defines the action within the heightened drama of unification? Is there an audience? To what degree are the players aware of their performances? Finally, does this grand drama also find expression on Berlin’s actual theater stages? Some prominent East Germans like psychoanalyst Hans-Joachim Maaz and such writers as Maron recognize their national dilemma as a matter of everyday performance. While Maaz diagnoses his fellow citizens as undergoing an identitycrisis that involves a complicated process of masking, unmasking, and remasking

1 This translation and all subsequent translations from German are my own unless specified otherwise. This citation comes from the West-German published correspondence between East German writer Monika Maron and a West German counterpart, Joseph von Westphalen. See Maron, 1988:11. Maron, who wrote and worked in the theater besides being a journalist, is known primarily for her novels, which were too controversial to be published in the GDR until after 1989. Maron left the GDR before its collapse to live in the West. 2 Richard Schechner defines “limen” as the “gap in the wall, a place where the wall is not” in “The Natural/Artificial Controversy Renewed” in his co-edited 1982 book, The End of Humanism: Writings on Performance: 80. This definition becomes quite palpable when applied to the actual space where a literal Wall stood for almost thirty years. 3 A version of this paper was presented at the annual Association for Theater in Higher Education meeting in Atlanta, 1992.

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(1990), writer Helga Königsdorf defines the reality she sees through theatrical metaphor. She believes that East Germans are “exposed to playing rules which they don’t fully comprehend. While the stagings are more elaborate than in the past, the roles assigned them are once more like bit parts. They feel badly treated…. Most of them clench their teeth, having decided to show that they can handle the situation” (1992:35). The “situation” whereby citizens shift from one mode of being (what it meant to be East German in the GDR) to another (what it means now) should not, however, be understood as a facile “all the world’s a stage” metaphor which would apply to all human beings.4 It appears that the daily role-playing within former East German society demands a forcible re-construction of new selves in a new society. The newness of such daily challenges as maneuvering boundaries carries with it the immediacy of “firstness” or living in the “moment.” “How can I speculate on what I’ll be doing in five to ten years, when my whole life changed overnight that November?” a member of the Eastern opposition party, Bündnis ‘90, asked me, referring to the night the Wall fell. Involvement in the forbidden peace movement and demonstrations had launched this one-time construction engineer into the arena of world politics and Berlin’s parliament. In fact, that November night catapulted Germans into a process that still remains unlike the everyday of the past. For East Germans, the accustomed workaday has been skewed by a new realm, reminiscent of what might be called a “subjunctive mood of culture” (see Turner, 1990:11), marked more by the uncertain possibilities of fiction than by the limitation of fact. For how can it be “back to usual” for these citizens whose very infrastructure was rendered obsolete? For them, it is vital to adopt new codes and cues for behavior. The process of true unification may, then, incorporate a grand-scale performance which, while ultimately involving all Germans, focuses on the East Germans. In this work-in-progress, the East Germans have inevitably become the main actors, both active role-players and improvisors, as they sort through old and new scenarios, seeking cues to guide their interactions and to validate their particular roles in a new social system. The dramatic locus, Berlin: cueing into the past andthe present Before World War II, when Berlin was whole, the city represented both Prussia’s center and the capital of Hitler’s Reich. After 1949, the dramatic visual language of Berlin’s double-cityscape communicated clear messages to the world about the consequences of war and military power and opposed ideological systems. While Berlin’s West

4

The notion of the world as stage, theatrum mundi, which predates Shakespeare by centuries, suggests that we enact our life on earth with God as the sole spectator. There are several studies of everyday role-playing (particularly in social situations) in modern life which employ the theatrical metaphor. In addition to Erving Goffman’s The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life (1959) and Frame Analysis (N.Y.: Harper & Row, 1974), consult the essays in Paul A.Hare and Herbert H. Blumberg, eds. Dramaturgical Analysis of Social Interactions (N.Y.: Praeger, 1988), Tom Burns’ Erving Goffman (N.Y.: Routledge, 1992), and Life as Theater: A Dramaturgical Source Book, eds. Brissett and Edgeley (N.Y.: Aldine de Gruyter, 1990).

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became a stage-designed capitalistic oasis in the midst of the GDR, the eastern half became a satellite-showcase of Soviet might. Although the most prominent sign of the Cold War—the Wall—has fallen, the newly designated capital city remains an important locus for the new social drama that began to unfold in 1989. In a heavily politicized cityscape like East Berlin, the people were accustomed to receiving strong cues for behavior from the immediate environment. Specific buildings and symbolic landmarks reinforced unambiguous social messages and values. So, what happens when the social system changes, but the buildings retain their forms, yet often become something different? The examples range from rather ordinary conversions to drastic transformations. Through darkened storefront windows, visible white tablecloths and dead window plants suggest desertion. Brightly-lettered signs like “Spaghetti Company” now flank the extinguished neon bulbs of former eating establishments once named for capital centers like “Prag” or “Sofia.” Former official border crossings such as Checkpoint Charlie are now defunct. But the consequences of these crossings are still alive—and volatile—in today’s Berlin, with the most vivid example being the trials of former GDR state leaders. Within a new code of politics—its language and landscape—the signifiers have shifted, redefining economic, ideological, and moral standards. In addition to expanses of wasteland where the Wall was, other visual reminders of the East German past remain in Berlin to halt a passerby. Still visible are abandoned watch-towers, rows of naked flagpoles, and building facades with barren circles that mark the absence of the once omnipresent Communist emblem. Or consider the Berliner Ensemble: physically, the theater looks virtually the same from the outside as it did several years ago, but behind the facade and its new colored advertisements, Bertolt Brecht’s theater had undergone a change in administrative structure, repertory, cast of actors, and audience.5 The end of the GDR has aborted the flagship theater’s cultural and political significance in the new Germany.6 To excavate a level deeper: from 1933 until May 1945, the Nazis reigned from the direct center of Berlin, the area later divided right down the middle. It may be fitting that the site of Hitler’s chancellery later became part of a “no-man’s-land” where the intra-German borders met: after all, Hitler is what both sides shared. The Hitlerian regime may be, in fact, the most significant unacknowledged subtext in the drama of unification. Not all of the important buildings significant to the Third Reich are gone. Besides the Reichstag, Hitler’s massive Reichsbank later provided the “Socialist Unity Party” (SED) with its central headquarters. And the Nazi Air Ministry still stands on Leipziger Straße (Figure 1). Like the former Reichsbank, its function has changed, while its appearance has not. Someone who remembers the Third Reich might choose

5

See my essay, “Brecht Our Contemporary: Berlin in Crisis,” American Theatre, April 1992:51–53. 6 Klaus van den Berg’s study of the relationship between Berlin’s urban space and the cultural identity of the city’s historical theaters considers the Berliner Ensemble before unification. See “The Geometry of Culture: Urban Space and Theatre Buildings in Twentieth-Century Berlin,” Theatre Research International 16.1 (1991): 3–5. J.S.Marcus has also written of the changing space in Berlin’s center, specifically the Potsdamerplatz of pre-and post-Wall times, See “Berlin Into the Future,” The New York Times Magazine, 18 October 1992:16

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to replace the fascist associations by cueing into the message marked by the colored murals of Socialist Realism on the building’s colonnaded side. In the GDR, Göring’s former air-ministry became the governmental “House of Ministries” whose iconic emblems of anti-fascism are superimposed on the former Nazi signals. Today’s passersby noticed in 1992 a new sign on the building’s facade: eclipsing parts of the brightly-painted farmers and workers, a placard reads, “TREUHANDANSTALT.” The government agency is the world’s largest holding company, now responsible for the privatization of East Germany’s once stateowned industries, small businesses, farm-lands and forests. The Treuhand symbolizes the intense transformation towards a market economy. However, for many Easterners, the newly-named “Rohwedder” building also signifies the “colonization” of their East7. In a decade, this building’s multiple functions and changing meanings may not be as significant as they are now. But for the moment, under new facades and shifting signs, the present clashes jarringly with the past like a turbulent palimpsest. As the new Germany strives to define its inner contours, Berlin’s architectural signifiers complicate and contradict the process, presenting a scenic design of whirligig ambiguity. German society in transition: “a fructile chaos?” I have offered the threshold between the former East and West as both a concrete and a symbolic locus for the process of unification. More than a mere transition between two states, the so-called “threshold experience” implies a “process of transformation” (Turnbull, 1990:80), a “state of reflection” (Turner, 1967:105), and a“no-man’s land” where one is neither what he has been nor is what he will be” (Turner, 1982:113). East Germans find themselves in a social situation where the dissolution of their state and its policies has forced them to test new structures and explore unfamiliar territory. They must now create a new existence, in spite of the chaos with which they are confronted. One is reminded of the paradoxical elements which anthropologists ascribe to the “fructile chaos” of the ritualized threshold experience (see Turner, 1990:11–12). Such elements include familiar cultural symbols which have been deconstructed, rendered ambiguous, and later recombined into new configurations. Images of doubleness, distortion, negation, and renewal mark this inbetween state and accurately characterize the social situation present within former East German borders. The process of sign shifting (both literal and metaphorical) in Germany’s East exemplifies how a state dismantles ideology and its representative symbols by resignifying its former icons. Consider, for example, the former Communist Party’s Central Committee headquarters which until recently bore the familiar insignia of a hammer and

7

Rolf Hochhuth’s newest docudrama, Wessis in Weimar, is written as a polemical “satire of an occupied land.” Set on the eve of the assassination of the Treuhand’s first president, Detlev-Karsten Rohwedder, the play exposes the conflict that the privatizing agency represents for the Eastern citizens who lost their jobs in the name of democracy and capitalism. The terrorist Red Army Faction claimed responsibility for the 1991 assassination of Rohwedder. See Der Spiegel of 1 June 1992:272–275 for excerpts, and the review of 15 February 1993:220–222.

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Figure 1 The Berlin Wall divided, yet still divisive. The building visible to the East is Göring’s Nazi Air Ministry, later the GDR House of Ministries, more recently the Treuhandsanstalt. Berlin, 1992. Photo: Rebecca Rovit

compass. The Berlin building has now reverted to its pre-1945 function: it houses the Deutsche Bank, an unambiguous symbol of capitalism. This newest message of financial freedom, however, contradicts the signals once emitted by the former Communist building. The financial center remains visible from the uniform balconies of neighboring socialist high-rises, once indicative of a collective of people whose individual wishes should not counter the Marxist-Leninist doctrine. What cues do the occupants of those multi-leveled housing blocks respond to as they look out at a

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familiar site within a new context?8 How do they react to the re-named streets which have two signs—the old one with an orange line marking its insignificance and the new sign post with its legitimate name? These literal signposts, which featured the names of events and revolutionary leaders, reinforced the political code which once governed people’s lives, and offered Easterners heroes from a common history. The shifting symbols are emblematic of what is meant by the “threshold” or liminal experience—a transitional atmosphere marked by uncertainty. Social drama: the implications of flux Berlin’s shifting semiology is inevitable in a society-in-transition. When a society loses the core of its significance, its symbols become divested of meaning and replaced by the new symbols of the new social order. With its array of such vivid icons as Nazi swastikas, Socialist hammers, and variously posed Prussian eagles, Germany provides a textbook example of the sharp transitions within one nation’s history. Such change within society may reflect the sequence of dramatic action that Victor Turner has referred to as “social drama.” “Social drama” entails several phases of movement: breach, crisis, redress, and restitution (see Turner, 1967, 1982, 1990).9 The “breach” occurs when community members publicly defy their society’s rules. This provokes a “crisis,” which leaders attempt to solve during the so-called “redressive process.” In the fourth phase of “restitution”—which may erupt in revolution—either an eventual reintegration of the society will occur, or a public recognition of a cleavage. On the surface, such a scenario of how societies work through collective crises could have been written to describe the 1989 events in East Germany, which began with the opening of the Austro-Hungarian border in Summer 1989, escalated into the so-called “October Revolution,” and hastened governmental “redressive” action on November 9th in an historical Wende (“turning point”) as the Berlin Wall came down.10 The final steps of redress were instituted powerfully by the West German government. And suddenly, by Spring 1990, it became clear that the GDR no longer existed. Thus it appears as though the social drama of the GDR ran more or less according to script and averted prolonged revolution. But the real-life situation was and is not so simple. The GDR may have disappeared, but its people have not. They are now involved in a process which requires them to accomodate themselves

8

It is ironic that the high-rises closest to the governmental buildings in the district Mitte (i.e., central Berlin) were reserved for the most loyal functionaries within the state. 9 Turner developed his ideas on “social drama” and liminality, in part, from Arnold van Gennep’s 1908 study of societal rites of passage as well as his [Turner’s] own fieldwork into the ritual action of pre-literate tribal communities. See Turner, 1967:93–5; 1982; 1990:8–18. 10 Richard Schechner in his most recent book, The Future of Ritual: Writings on Culture and Performance (N.Y.: Routledge, 1993), refers to various public street actions, including the breaching of the Wall, in “The Street as Stage” (chap.3). Schechner limits his description to a documention of the immediacy of the public event, attributing to the November breaching of the Wall a carnivalesque liminality. The instant euphoria of “revolution” by the people and their triumphant communal action, however, was shortlived. Those same citizens now confront a daily liminality devoid of the ludic spirit.

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to a new economic, social, and political system, in order to become fully integrated within a greater Germany. If we accept the premise that theater is specifically linked to the ritual processes through which society restores itself (Turner 1990:11), then we may consider the “unification performance” as a process of renewal similar to life-crisis ceremonies and social initiation rites. The novice who undergoes rites of the “threshold experience” to attain a new role in society provides us with a provocative metaphor for the German citizen. For it is the East Germans especially who may be likened to “neophytes” in their personal and social journey to gain the “right” to pass into the new Germany. Such “rights” or rites of passage represent the core of the social drama, which may be defined as the point “where the contents of the group experiences are replicated, dismembered, remembered, refashioned, and mutely or vocally made meaningful” (Turner 1990:13). The individual or group, having separated from the society, passes through a threshold phase and eventually reemerges changed and enlightened into a new society. The passage from one condition to another is traditionally characterized by pain and humiliation. Indeed, East Germans like Maaz and Königsdorf refer, respectively, to a “mourning period” (Maaz, 1990), or compare their ongoing ordeal in the new Germany to the painful struggle of a child who must internalize new restrictions and playing rules (Königsdorf, 1992). We note the emphasis on grief, reassessment, “beginning again,” and learning new rules for behavior from society. The powerful image of daredevil Bungee performers suspended above the threshold creates a vivid metaphor for the daily struggle of former Easterners (Figure 2). Below—on the ground—they must now cross over the threshold between East and West, risking vulnerability as they strive to transcend their doubleness. For within reunification, Germans themselves represent a new doubling. In spite of their common root culture, language, and history (until 1945), the ideological and geographic isolation of the GDR has created two separate peoples—alike, and yet quite different. East Germans cannot become West Germans and West Germans have no interest in becoming East Germans. What seemed in 1989 like the reunion of languishing lost relatives has become a union fraught with contempt and misunderstanding. In a popular joke among Germans, an East German says to a West German, “We are one people!” The West German quickly responds with, “So are we!” Both peoples eventually might change enoughto accommodate one another and become an integrated people. But the collapse of the GDR has required East Germans to change first. This process of change relies, in part, on the public acknowledgement of past action. In the East German situation, the “bloodless revolution” first led to a literal overthrow of boundaries and to intensified life-crises. Now Germans are attempting to come to terms with both their old society and the new one into which they have moved. This kind of public reflexivity is apparent on the governmental level with the formation of committees to dissect such organizations as the Stasi (secret police) and then to reassemble the information meaningfully. And as citizens of the “new federal state,” former East German citizens seek meaning for their future through communal remembrance (and possibly rationalization of the past). This task is especially painful because of the complex levels of role-playing that occurred in the GDR,

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Figure 2 Suspended above the Threshold: Bungee jumping over the former “death zone,” Berlin-Mitte, Germany, 1992. Photo: Rebecca Rovit

We all engage in everyday role-playing, regardless of our society.11 It appears, however, that within formerly socialist countries such as the GDR, the various levels of role-playing and masking might be considered more intricate than in so-called “democratic” societies such as ours. The GDR citizens took their cues from their highly politicized environment, which included responding in particular programmed ways to their political leaders. Now, the former East Germans (for example, in East Berlin) must adjust to an environment which has been in constant flux since 1989. For people accustomed to carefully-honed messages from the state, propaganda and less literal codes for behavior have been changed or erased. East Berliners are now bombarded with the new system’s messages of an individualist consumer society. Yet, at the same time, people still respond to cues which they learned during the years when socialist doctrines governed their society. Even while citizens confront the shifting signs of their present environment, they may recognize the still-familiar language—be it verbal or no-verbal—of their immediate past. In trying to understand how these people make the transition from one kind of society to its opposite, it is useful to consider the means by which the socialist state staged itself. And in this

11

For more on the general idea of the way we present ourselves in everyday life, see the work of Erving Goffman, including The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life (1959). Goffman’s observations on human interactions and role-playing are based primarily on Anglo-American societies, thus making cross-cultural generalizations based on his theories speculative endeavors. But his insight into interactional role-playing in everyday life has provoked other useful studies on the drama of life. See note 4.

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context, it is highly significant what roles the citizens played in response to their government while the GDR existed. The state and social masking Most societies rely, in part, on social masking. This occurs in varying degrees when dignitaries present themselves and their country to foreign visitors, as well as when citizens learn social codes for interaction. The socialization process in the ex-GDR, however, may be described almost exclusively in terms of social facades (Maaz 1990:77). This includes the official use of urban space in East Berlin to manipulate citizens’ impressions. The state presented itself to the outside world as something it was not: a progressive industrialized nation dedicated to its people. The removal of the state’s semantic veneer of humanist and democratic notions has revealed an authoritarian system with contempt for human rights. The transcripts of Party speeches on brotherhood now ring as hollow as the half-empty stores whose windows only displayed exotic fruits for the sake of visiting VIPs. Visual examples of “whitewashing” reality included literally painting the grass green (again, for visitors) and the renovation of one street of nineteenth-century housing facades amid a decaying worker’s district in Berlin.12 The former East German state’s preoccupation with stage-managing public images of itself, however, was not for the benefit of visitors alone. Within its borders, the GDR made carefully controlled efforts to promote positive political attitudes. Governments often exploit setting to influence political behavior (see Aman, 1992: 88–9; Edelman in Hare & Blumberg, 1988:70–1). As an example, in 1951, East German political leaders inaugurated the city’s central Marx-Engels-Platz (now called by its former name: the Lustgarten) for mass meetings and state ceremonies to publicly confirm the significance of the political system to citizens’ lives . Such ceremonies took place several times a year through the following decades (in fact, until October 1989). During the 1980s, however, the government modified its theory on cultivating socialist awareness in its citizens. The changes included recognizing the significance of a person’s daily cognizance of individual experience. Officials realized that one’s personal awareness was integral to a person’s societal awareness, not just a spontaneous consequence of it. In order to instill a socialist consciousness among the people, therefore, the Party first had to ensure that people looked favorably at the routine encounters with state institutions and principles. In their attempts to socialize citizens according to Marxist ideology, government officials had to at least create the semblance of dealing with familiar everyday frustrations like the lack of consumer goods or an inefficient bureaucracy (Grünenberg, 1990:71–2).13

12

Maaz (1990:22) speaks of the fabrication of “Potemkin villages.” During the week before Christmas, for example, government officials saw to it that the supply of oranges might actually meet the holiday demands for the fruits. Marc Silberman (1993:15) describes the GDR power monopoly in terms of a “paternalistic social contract” under which citizens could expect efficiency in socio-economic affairs.

13

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But in spite of the efforts made to personalize the ideological education of the masses, many among those masses never really identified with the political system— especially during the economic decline of the 1980s.14 While there was an apparent tentative “mass loyalty” among citizens to their system, allowing the GDR to exist as long as it did (Reißig, 1991:16), individuals also engaged in diverse forms of social masking (e.g., role-playing) in order to live within a system that extended into the most private spheres of life (with tapped home phones, informers, censorship, and the enforcement of social behavior). This impingement on a citizen’s personal realm affected both one’s sense of self and the self that was to be presented to others. If every performance requires an audience, then East Germany’s state apparatus and its functionaries represented an omnipresent audience. Average citizens were observed and overheard, while private details of their lives were dissected by others (from neighbors to members of the security police). This mix of state-controlled voyeurism with political propaganda made it all the more necessary for citizens to acknowledge—at least publicly—an identification with the GDR and its policies. Role-playing as a “ritualized schizophrenia” It is highly probable that GDR citizens faced a major disparity between those ideological principles which governed citizens’ public behavior and those values which shaped their interactions within the individual personal sphere. The discrepancy between the West German images of reality which East Germans gained access to at home (via West German television broadcasts) and the everyday reality of their actual experiences in society created within people a split seemingly characteristic of life under state socialism (Borneman, 1992:20, 25; Heinrich, 1989: 109). The incongruity between the state and the so-called “civil society,” that is, the individual levels of existence, was manifested by a doubleness in language—one at home with those one trusted, and the official speech which required corresponding public behavior (Scherer, 1991:308). These contradictory levels of existence led citizens towards a “true double life,” not only in thought, but also in practice. This entailed adjusting one’s behavior from the state-produced role of a “a conforming underling with the nature of a marionette,” to the more sense-oriented existence of relationships within the circle of family and friends (Heinrich, 1989:109–110). The awareness of leading a dual life allowed average citizens over time to inhabit a form of “ritualized schizophrenia;” this required a disguising of one’s private feelings, while outwardly conforming to political standards in specific situations (see Grünenberg, 1990:235). This is not to say that average citizens were fully aware of playing a “double role.” In fact, the significance of such double-role-playing is that citizens frequently merged their official and private roles. This makes it difficult to separate those roles now. A former opposition party leader of Neues Forum, Jens Reich, describes the ambivalence with which the East German masses participated in obligatory political

14

There is also evidence to suggest that young citizens tend to identify with basic elements of socialist ideology, such as membership in the youth group organizations like the FDJ (Free Democratic Youth). See Borneman, 1992:164. Young people did not necessarily see such membership as ideology, rather as community commitment and play.

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rallies and festivals. The double motives which brought hordes of people to cheer on the annual May Day parades, for example, entailed one’s duty to (or fear of) one’s boss, as well as the more spontaneous desire for a family outing. Reich speaks of the “unbelievable force” that enveloped the May Day crowd, clearly demonstrating the people’s outward allegiance to their leader. No one marches past Honecker’s grandstand without looking up at him and his deputies: “Under coercion. One did not risk an angry look, because of Gorillas [secret police], who observed every motion. Actually, it would not have been dangerous…but one was inhibited” (1991:135). The mass inhibition resulted in identical behavior among people: a picture of joyous approval as they waved banners, raising their fists in solidarity. But Reich also concludes that such behavior was not false, nor was it necessarily calculated. Rather, the people “improvised their roles as extras in an opera. As if. Much was pure fiction. One hundred thousand rejoiced at the holidays and torchlit processions. One hundred thousand repeated the theorems of dialectical materialism…” (1991:135). Such collective, public role-playing, besides suggesting the power of mass behavior and the influence of authority, also demonstrates a ritualized performance within which the players diligently enacted their roles in the familiar political festivities. Indeed, citizens learned quickly that it was advantageous to recall and flawlessly parrot on cue standard political definitions by Party leaders. Instead of trying to formulate for themselves—in their own words—how Socialist society was organized, Reich himself advised his own children to use the family dinner time as rehearsal for future proper political phrasing (Reich, 1991:135). The family was perhaps as important an influence in shaping citizens’ consciousness as was the propagandizing state. At home, teenagers might speak of their frustrations and aspirations, whereas at school or at work they complied with the expected protocol of allegiance to the state.15 Many homes, however, also served as the site of more practiced forms of masking, as evident from conversations I had with some East Germans. These people acknowledged taking part in every-day private performances for obvious eavesdropping government “audiences.” An older housewife indicated how she should change her behavior when spying neighbors dropped in to “look around” on the pretext of borrowing a cup of flour or an egg. One actress even acknowledged her “Party”—line listeners by addressing them directly with, “Hey, guys….” Another young woman ignored her “audience” as if she were not being overheard. An elderly couple, suspicious of wire taps planted in their walls or ceilings, as well as informing neighbors, regulated their radio and T.V. sounds daily so as not to be too loud or too soft to appear suspect. In all these acknowledged performances, the players recognized that they played to an invisible yet attentive audience.

15

Youth sociologists in East Germany have discovered that in the GDR, young people “effortlessly developed a doubled identity,” in spite of their feelings of belonging to the East German system. School pupils saw through the ideology that was preached to them. They attributed to their teachers specific functions, while also attributing particular roles to themselves. For more information on the phenomenon see, “Da braut sich was zusammen: Ost-Jugend: Eine verlorene Generation?” Der Spiegel 11 Nov. 1991:112. Also see Grünenberg, 1990:235.

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Because of the degree to which the political system infiltrated life in the GDR, the public and private spheres often overlapped. In spite of the so-called “schizophrenic” rituals of behavior modification, it was dangerous to show one’s “true face.” The players might become too caught up in their self-protective charades because of the degree to which they might have to monitor their behavior for potential audiences. In this way, the suppression of one’s real opinions and feelings could eventually lead to such a “sincere” social act that the mask or “second face” became confused with the real or normal identity—privately, too (Maaz, 1990:77). This worked satisfactorily while the GDR existed, because by internalizing the state rules, citizens accomodated themselves to the system and established a modus vivendi, which, in turn, reinforced the status quo. So ubiquitous was the presence of the security apparatus in citizens’ lives that people eventually had to make deliberate choices as to the personal tactics they would use to deal with the measures imposed on them by the state. The choices usually ranged between submitting to constraints or refusing to comply with the security measures. Borneman refers to the former East German state and its Stasi as “metamaster narratives” for the people of the GDR (1992:178), while Reich compares the way that citizens accomodated themselves to the “conspiratory” system with the way a Pavlovian reflex works. Because the form and nature of the government audience were so often unpredictable, many citizens eventually stopped using the postal service, their telephones, and even their apartments for anything other than trivial conversations. So accustomed to the everpresent specter of “audience,”: the people, ever-conscious of their every action and its potential interpretation, drifted towards self-censorship and often silence. It appears that the process towards self-suppression began as one consciously juggled the effects of three ways to communicate socially: stating one’s true opinion, voicing what one thought the conversation partner wanted to hear, or declaring an official Party opinion. Over time, the person automatically resorted to the most favored (and safe) response, thereby upholding the state’s ideology—and hardly realizing it (Reich, 1991:152).16 Artists, agents, and informers: an example Some GDR citizens were clearly more capable than others in manipulating their performances, conscious of the social facades which they adopted to protect themselves. Such “cynical” performers (see Goffman, 1959:18) were able to maintain emotional distance from their role-playing. Aware of their play-acting, they hid this fact from their audiences. The students who saw through the half-lies and omissions of their teachers recognized their own roles in the same ideological performance. Perhaps the artists—whether writers or actors—represented some of the more

16

Such thoughts by Reich may appear to contradict the notion—already attributed to Reich—that the home was safe haven from the state. It should be noted that Reich wrote his assessment of life in the GDR over years both within the shadow of the Stasi phantom and post-1989. These particular thoughts stem from a 1987–1988 essay which was published under a pseudonym. Reich attributes a strong subjective bent to the essay because, at the time, he was unable to judge whether his (and others’) fears were illusory or real.

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flexible role-players, accustomed professionally as they were to creating other characters. Writers could rely on their novelistic capacities for fluid self-presentation, cloaking themselves as fantasy figures. Actors might employ their skills in Brechtian self-estrangement techniques to gain distance from their personal and societal creations. And their various audiences on or offstage could never be certain when the artist was truly engaged in role-playing. Perhaps the most intriguing set of real-life “performers,” however, were the Stasi agents and informers. The ability to lead two separate lives—one as citizen/actor, and one as Stasi agent/character, for example—is an especially curious phenomenon, in light of the already-mentioned split characteristic of living under socialism. This split assumes that a person may differentiate between the public and private life spheres, behaving differently in each. Given this scenario, in which sphere does a member of the Stasi belong? Is such a role part of one’s public duty to one’s state or one’s private responsibility to oneself? For as an “unofficial” informant, might not such a secret arrangement belong to one’s most personal realm? The odd mix of the public and the most intimate spheres creates an extraordinary fusion of role playing interactions. The meticulous detail involved in preparing Stasi officers for their roles as recruiters and “listeners” included well-rehearsed encounters, which were loosely scripted in advance. Before the initial recruitment meeting, having studied their prospective “scene partners’” recorded biography—from hobbies to vulnerabilities— the officers were directed to arrange the impression they would make. This meant insuring a good appearance which included wearing a proper suit, having “clean hands, and avoiding bad breath and body odor” (Der Spiegel, 1992:37). Counseled to “use a calm, friendly tone” of voice, the officers memorized phrases and persuasive speech patterns to gain the potential informer’s confidence and trust. Reports from informers regarding their particular officers suggest that these “confidence men and women” were extra-sensitive listeners who always had time for them. Of course, the Stasi officer, playing the role of a caring “friend,” had rehearsed the best ways to create and nurture and empathetic connection with the informer. Evidently, the agents were trained in tactics of seduction rather than blackmail. It is ironic, though, that at the same time that the well-dressed agents enacted their seductions, they too were regularly the objects of other Stasi informers, and could become subject to blackmail (Der Spiegel, 1992:40).17 It is the “unofficial” informers, though, whose role-playing best illustrates the merging of one’s self with a created persona. The “unofficial” informers Those men and women who were “seduced” and recruited to partake in the officers’ scheme as informers were usually called “unofficial” informers. Besides being deceived by the confidence game their thoughtful friends had devised, they, too, carefully created alter-egos so separate from themselves that they often even

17

The Stasi agent is clearly a “professional” performer. In a situation, however, where another agent deliberately frames a “set-up” session, incorporating a fellow spy into a conversation for the purposes of spying, the initial “professional” may no longer be in control of—or aware of—the performance at hand.

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deceived themselves. Under the direction of their officers, the informers cast themselves as new personae by choosing their own cover names. Some chose aliases which suggested their identity or profession; but, more often, these “actor-creators” sought covers in figures whom they admired or even feared. Thus, informers sometimes opted for names of famous composers, star soccer players, or even known critics of the government; others identified themselves as government officials. The well-known GDR writer, Christa Wolf, accustomed to creating various selves in her novels, chose to be “Margarete”—because it was her middle name, or in homage to Goethe’s Faust, or to Paul Celan?18 Such wish-roles may have embodied integral parts of themselves for which they could avoid accountability. Surely it is significant that the Stasi informer created the new persona by naming it him- or herself. By first naming the newly-formed character and then identifying with it, the informer set a fantasy-self in motion. As one female informer remarked on the process of slipping into that second skin, “I could practically become she who I always wanted to be” (Der Spiegel, 1992:38). This suggests how the informer would escape responsibility for her-self and that “first” self’s actions by merging into a second self—one which would become virtually autonomous over time. Likewise, by creating a second separate identity besides oneself, one might more readily relegate informant activities to that persona, thus absolving oneself as original creator from responsibility. In both cases, this kind of dissociation process might make it easier to compartmentalize one’s self or selves in order to lead the double, even triple lives associated with secret agents in the former GDR. It is interesting to note that the “unofficial” informers tended to detach themselves enough from the character they chose to play, so that they could, without remorse, inform on family and friends, as well as on strangers. This may have been due, in part, to the alias, but the “actor-informer” also had to enter a contract with the Stasi which required a vow of silence. This made the subsequent role-playing a very private kind of performance—close to fantasy—and yet still dependent on the Stasi official, who, in a way, served as scene partner, director, and audience member. The usual role assigned to the informer would be, ironically enough, one of active spectator. This designated role might account, in part, for the characteristic detachment the actor-informer maintained from the role. Indeed, sometimes the double life might entail such a great distancing between self and role that the actor

18 The metadramatic controversy over Wolf’s role as both a one-time agent of the state surveillance system, as well as its object/victim, continues to polarize intellectuals in the former East and in the West. Her publication of Was bleibt (1990), an account from the years when she was shadowed by the Stasi, incited critics to ask why she had not published her story earlier. Criticism of her complicity with a regime which she claims monitored her has heated up since the emergence of Stasi files which indicate how willing she herself had been to inform on fellow writers. In a recent article which may have been written before the newest evidence of Wolf’s own informant activities surfaced, Katrin Sieg (1993) uses the Wolf controversy as emblematic of how German history and national identity have been revised and refigured, with (female) leftist intellectuals like Wolf being relegated to the status of a whore or ‘fallen woman.’ (1993):39. Yet, in light of documents which reveal Wolf’s voluntary pact with the Stasi, we might suggest that instead of merely falling victim to a patriarchal plot from the West to debase a strong (Communist) woman, Wolf “made her own bed” and should be held accountable for lying in it.

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claimed to have been unaware of what the character did or was capable of doing. Christa Wolf claims not remember anything about her stint as a loyal government confidante (see Hage 1993:198). And the former Bundestag member (for the Communist PDS Party), Jutta Braband, neither remembered her cover name, nor any of the details of her four-year commitment to the Stasi. Once she saw her own citizen files, however, she was shocked by what she had done in the name of another: “I had a version of the whole story in my head that could not shake up my true sense of self” (Der Spiegel, 1992”40). This notion is especially provocative if we consider that our sense of who we are is not only defined by ourselves, but also reified by how we appear to others. The self as co-creation According to some phenomenologists, the self, or “experiencing body must bind its presence to itself through others and other things in a way that vastly exceeds and encompasses the time of the immediately present local situation” (Wilshire, 1982: 279). Our concern with the impact of our “performances” on observers is integral to our sense of success (see Goffmann, 1959:22); but equally vital to our sense of self is how we perceive that others see us (R.Turner in Hare & Blumberg, 1988:81–82). The Stasi informers, bound by vows of silence and new names, remained “unoffical” selves. Precisely because they were “unofficial,” they did not need to change their behavior while among those they would inform on. Braband, then, could remain true to her established “sense of self,” which was undoubtedly reinforced by those who knew her. And given the nature of the informer-Stasi officer relationship, the wellrehearsed officer would nurture the informer’s sense of identity, rewarding him or her both emotionally and materially for doing a job well. Thus, it makes sense that over time the informer might easily maintain what may seem to be a divided existence, and yet not necessarily be aware of such division. There is the case of Bundestag member Vera Wollenberger (Bundnis ‘90), whose husband informed on her and their son for years. After the truth emerged in 1991, Wollenberger’s husband (alias “Donald”) was unable to recognize or acknowledge having decieved anyone, let alone his wife. He rationalized his betrayal by casting his informant role as one of a kind of freedom fighter who had sought to infiltrate the Stasi with his first-hand knowledge of the then-illegal environmental and peace concerns of the movement he belonged to. These examples demonstrate a curious phenomenon regarding identitycreation and doubleness among those who chose to incorporate their already-divided daily lives with an extra layering of role-playing. In these cases, the informers created characters who gained such autonomy over time that the “actors” became alienated from parts of themselves (the created personae). Is this self-delusion? In an ironic twist on Brecht’s theatrical distancing technique, is this not the epitome of a real-life Brechtian “estangement” of the “actor” from the role? Real life “performances” versus theatrical performances But of course, most onstage performers—especially Brechtian ones—clearly separate their life roles from their stage roles which are fixed in theatrical time and place. The apparent beginning and end of an onstage performance allows the actor to remain

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conscious of role-playing, thereby distinguishing between reality and illusion. For many former secret agents, however, their performative spying process was selfdeceptive. As theorists have noted, self-deception may be unavoidable for roleplayers who “perform” outside the theater. While Goffman and his followers have argued that we construct social selves deliberately in order to manage impressions, Maaz has pointed out the inability some have in actually managing those impressions (1990:7). Others explain the deception by presuming an inability to “voluntarily” manipulate the aesthetic distance between us and our creations, a feat so much a part of onstage artistry. In other words, because we are “essentially social, essentially fantasizing, essentially private, and…actual beings, our ‘performances’ [in life] involve us…in that gray area where voluntary and involuntary commingle” (Wilshire, 1982:267). It is true that our offstage performances are inevitably more complex than the performances a professional actor manipulates on stage. These real-life “performances” are only loosely scripted by circumstance, if scripted at all. Thus, because the outcome of such enactments is unshaped and unknown, we may attribute to the enactors of such offstage role-playing an element of personal (e.g. psychological) risk. Wilshire’s study of the relationship between role-playing and identity examines general human tendencies in identity construction. This includes a basic awareness of ourselves as both experiencing (performing) and experienced (performed) selves. The study does not account for extreme socio-political situations such as we may find under authoritarian regimes, however. As we have seen, the merging of the so-called private and public spheres in GDR society often necessitated that citizens “mask” themselves to a certain degree all of the time, thus accomodating themselves to the political system. The examples of interactions between citizens and Stasi informers are powerful indications of how some citizens reconstructed themselves within both their private and public spheres. The consideration of roleplaying and identity within the former GDR citizen, then, raises a provocative question: Is the notion of a private sphere separate from the public realm a universally accepted phenomenon, or might such a division be attributed culturally only to societies which promote individualism?19 There is a common Romantic (and solely Western?) assumption that the self divides into an inner self and an outer self. Wilshire generally distrusts the idea of an inner core within us that is more real than the so-called “outer,” public self. For him, identity is the “ever incompletable mediation of each through the other” (1982:290). Sociologists like Goffman, however, assume that the public “face” during roleplaying serves as a kind of shell, masking the “true” face. But given the omnipresence of the former GDR regime in citizens’ lives and the curious forms of

19

In The Hidden Dimension (N.Y.: Doubleday, 1969), E.T.Hall investigates proxemics, suggesting that varying perceptions of space (both public and private) are an extension of specific cultures. It is curious that in a culture like Japan, no word exists for the concept “privacy” (152). This is also true, as Hall tells us, for Arabic cultures where the location of the ego in the body is apparently more deeply tucked away than what we American and Northern European cultures consider to be physical (spatial) privacy (157–159). This suggests, for example, that for Arabs, public distance is ostensibly equal to the inviolate space Americans consider to be personal.

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role-playing such intervention prompted, we may question the extent to which an authoritarian society allows for the development of a protected, innermost self which is separate from the “outside” social self that we show publicly.20 It may be that the former East Germans—socialized in an authoritarian environment for decades—did not develop distinctive inner selves which differed much from their social selves except in terms of more intense degrees of selfprotection and self-absorption. Maaz speaks of a character deformity, in fact, beased on the citizen’s natural impulses continually being thwarted in repressive societies like the GDR (1990:96). This argument assumes the inner self to be a product of socialization in the same way as the public self. Could this be a clue as to why many GDR citizens may have been unable to recognize the extent of doubleness which

While Hall does not consider peoples from the former East Bloc like the GDR (he specifically says he is not referring to East Germans in Understanding Cultural Differences [Yarmouth, Maine: Intercultural Press, 1990]:33, his studies do examine the importance of spatial boundaries for Germans, who “sense their own space as an extension of their ego” (1969:134). Although Hall refers to the German penchant during World War II for Lebensraum, he focuses primarily on post-war West Germans who are inclined towards orderliness of space, as well was towards fences and doors to separate the private sphere from the public. One can only speculate on the extent to which the highly political East German regime skewed the citizens’ relation to space—both personal and public. 20 John Borneman (1992) maintains that public space in the old GDR was so dominated by the state that “to speak the self became an exercise in self-effacement.” According to Borneman, this necessitated an interiorization into private lives and private selves (321). Given the extraordinary overlapping of what is private and what is public in the former GDR, it is unfortunate that Borneman does not elaborate on the nature of such private selves. In the first decade of the GDR, close ideological ties between politics and culture dictated that the role of literature was to be generally expressive and supportive of Party ideals and values, for literature was viewed as a significant socialization medium. Beginning in the 1970s, although still heavily censored, writers expressed more critical viewpoints about GDR society (See Grünenberg, 1990:141–2). Above all, writers began to examine the relationship between identity and society. In Monika Maron’s 1981 semiautobiographical novel, Flugasche (Flight of Ashes), career and sense of self fractures after she tries to write her own version of the truth. After having submitted a factual account of the dangerous pollution existent in the city B., she suffers humiliating criticism and ostracism from her colleagues. As she becomes more at odds with her oncecomfortable environment, the heroine becomes self-absorbed: “[She] understood for the first time what people meant when they spoke of their private lives. She had not understood where the secret boundary was that divided a private life from another life, where it began or ended, that had nothing to do with anyone and about which one did not speak…. Then she began to understand the double life of others, wishing to carefully separate her chosen life from that which was imposed on her” (207–208). While Maron’s work was not published in the East, the author’s viewpoint and personal struggle with identity suggests the difficulty one might have in separating oneself from the majority in an authoritarian society. It is not until Maron’s heroine is thrust into a personal crisis situation that she becomes self-reflexive. East Germans now find themselves in precisely such a crisis situation.

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characterized their former role-playing before 1989? We may argue, then, that the construction of social facades or masks was a necessary consequence of socialization under authoritarianism. With time, however, such a protective cover eventually replaced what we may call a person’s “true” face or self. This scenario makes the end of the GDR all the more traumatic for the former citizens. For now it is necessary, metaphorically speaking, to renew the “mask which became the face” against an essentially unknown void. This is indeed a bitter irony for many East German citizen-actors who, for the second time in forty years, confront a social system which requires them to subordinate themselves to new principles of behavior, always anticipating audience response. Within the GDR, these “actors” had consciously compromised their individuality for their audience, forming set masks which often became their normal “faces.” Now these “players” are on the threshold of a new system—again aware that they must study their old features and exchange their masks in order to readjust their actions for new audiences. Because the old “mask” was so closely linked to the inner core of the person, acquiring a new official mask ultimately means becoming a new person.21 Perceptions of reunification: outside audiences Although the unification is an ongoing process, there may be an assumption by outsiders that it was an already-enacted, national “performance” defined by the breaching of the Berlin Wall and framed by the media. Certainly, there was an enormous amount of media coverage on those early November days in 1989. Who can forget the documented images of fleeing refugees, demonstrations, and tearful reunions between two estranged peoples? By Spring 1990, however, the world’s media had moved their cameras to other sites. To outsiders, it may have appeared as though the social upheaval of unification had been resolved, passing out of the immediacy of the performance mode back into the routine reality of life as usual. Video cameras may have captured—and preserved—the “novelty” of dramatic revolt leading to climax and a seeming denouement. But November 1989 did not mark merely an unusual epsiode after which citizens returned to the life they had known before. Instead, those days began a process that remains separate from the everyday of the past. Since 1989, East Germans have been aware they are shedding an old self and becoming something else—something they have not yet become. We have joined the Germans as spectators of their performance towards unity, relying primarily on the media to further define the direction of the unification. But the West-biased media have been criticized for reconstructing past events to the point of revision. This includes the misrepresentation of the Easterners who initially sought reform but not

21

See Maaz, 1990: “Having shown ourselves here [in the GDR]…to behave with dependency and subjugation, now we must switch to the other extreme, and show ourselves to be busy, dynamic, self-possessed, and competitive. Drilled into rigid adjustment, now we should show our flexibility to change…. Such a transformation cannot occur on command…at most, as a renewed mask” (181). Also see Borneman, who ascribes to the Easterner a process of self-dissolution as a “consumer self oriented to public display” is adopted (1992:321).

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Figure 3 East Germans stage a protest at the dismantling of the Lenin statue at Leninplatz, Berlin (East), 1991. The mocking sign reads, “Here, the Berlin Senate is taking care of German-German history in light of a cleansing action against those who think differently.” Photo: Jenny White

necessarily unification.22 As Sieg suggests, in televising the “revolution,” the selected, now-frozen frames of those November days “conspired” to change the meaning of events, not only casting the socialist East into the role of “loser,” but also as “villain” of the Cold War (1993:36–37). Sieg is right that the “winning” West German—as patron and critic—has provided the frame of reference to which the Easterner should adjust. And the East German is absolutely aware of these standards to which he or she must measure up,23 But such general reinterpretation and revisionism of German events past since 1989 has not only been by—and for the benefit of—the “capitalist,” West-oriented media; rather, the initial movement towards German unity has also been re-viewed and reinterpreted through whatever ideological lens the perceiving interest groups (and critics) have gazed through at the world—Marxist feminism in the case of Sieg, and a study of life as performance in my own.

22

See footnote 18 for citation. However, Sieg further politicizes her argument—and thus reveals her own bias—first by classifying the media as predominately patriarchal, and then by genderizing the unification process with “heterosexual desire” and the West with virility; the scenario goes so far as to interpret unification as the “matrimony” between the male West and its Eastern “princess bride,” thus enabling the “capitalist penetration of Eastern virgin markets” (39).

23

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The various interpretations imposed on real events suggest something about the general disunion between the actual everyday unification performance and the onstage performances in Berlin’s theaters. If powerful “social dramas” can incite outside—and relatively impartial—critics to shape such varied and often contradictory interpretations of what actually occurred, are those artists who were personally involved in the disputed events even capable now of expressing on stage the deep concerns existent in German society—especially in the East? A disjunction between life and stage performances? The dysfunctional German family of citizen-actors and audience members— extending to us as outside critics—is seeking to reassess and make its past actions meaningful. One would hope that playwrights would craft new works which not only express, but also give new meaning to the whirlwind of events which have occurred in Germany since 1989. According to the artistic director of the MaximGorkiTheater, however, East German authors do not yet feel capable of coming to terms with the history of their land from the present perspective (Hetterle, 1991:27). The events of unification and its aftermath still may be too emotionally close for playwrights to reflect upon in stageable scripts.24 Not only do the playwrights need aesthetic distance from the unification experience in order to analyze what has happened to them during the past five years, but as Schölling reports, GDR problems do not sell theater tickets. With 80% of their audiences made up of West Germans and foreigners, such eastern theaters as the MaximGorki have had to adapt their repertories to what will be profitable at the box office, namely, classics and modern plays from the West (1993:30).25 Central to the new economic realities which East German theater managements confront, however, is a greater hurdle: Germans must first transcend their liminality in order to move into a reintegrated society. By applying the notion of the “threshold experience” to the German unification process, we gain insight into the performative aspects of a people and 24

New plays-in-progress do exist from both the East and the West. Besides plays by Jochen Berg and Lutz Rathenow, Volker Braun recently crafted a poetic Iphigenia at Aulis and Christoph Hein has had a production of his post-1989 play Randow. And Hochhuth’s polemical Wessis in Weimar blames capitalism as the source of present economic misery in East Germany. A report on Eastern theater in the German state of Saxony in Theater Heute, July 1993, suggests the economic difficulties faced by theaters in the provinces. For a comprehensive and contextualized English-language update on the newest stagings, consult Silberman, 1993:18. It should be noted that there is a tendency among East Berlin directors to highlight a new German context in their staging of classics, whether Shakespeare’s Lear, Kleist’s Kathchen von Heilbronn, Schiller’s The Robbers, or Brecht’s Good Person of Setzuan. 25 It is not surprising then that works by Albee, Miller, and Jane Martin are now part of the Gorki season—alongside Tabori and Sobol, incidentally, while the Deutsches Theater has slated O’Neill and Shepard with Hofmannsthal, Kleist, and Ostrovsky. For the most recent English-language assessment of the challenges facing former East German theaters in light of the competitive market economy, see Schölling’s recent report (1993), particularly pp. 29–31 regarding theater audience and repertory changes. See also Marna King’s essay in this volume.

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Figure 4 (a) Facing East at the New Checkpoint Charlie. (b) Tourists and Berliners mingle at Checkpoint Charlie. (c) The West-side museum at Checkpoint Charlie; the slogan on the building reads, “A New Time.” (d) Souvenirs of an old regime at Checkpoint Charlie. (e) Crossing the threshold where the Wall once was. The Nazi Air Ministry looms in the background. (f) Layers of German History at the former site of the Gestapo. Visible are remnants of the Berlin Wall and the Nazi Air Ministry. (g) A limen between East and West: Where the Wall once was. (h) Close-up of a gap in the Berlin Wall. (i) Remnants of the Wall amid reconstruction in Berlin’s center. (j) A Threshold and remnants of the Wall. (k) “No-man’s-land” between Berlin’s East and West. The infamous West German publisher, Axel-Springer-Verlag, is visible in the distance. (1) A Threshold, Berlin. (m) Double signs in Berlin’s new center. Visible are highrises from the Eastern boulevard, Leipziger Straße. (n) Two sets of street signs highlight a typical Eastern neighborhood. (o) Pedestrians in the East take cues from the little green man with a hat. (p) Lenin. (q) Lenin redux. (r) A fallen icon: Lenin statue amid former GDR government buildings. To the left, the foreign ministry; rear-center, the “Palace of the Republic.” (s) A Lenin statue dismounted. In the Background, an image of the GDR government ministry building is reflected in the mirrored windows of the “Palace of the Republic.” (t) Lenin. Photos: Rebecca Rovit

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their society-in-transition. The process toward German unity may be viewed as a performance a society acts about itself. This suggests something about the cultural performances in the theaters. It is indeed ironic that in the culture where Brecht most explosively introduced the V-Effekt as an alienating theatrical technique, now life has jolted an entire population into a drama of alienation where they must discover roles without a script or playwright. In this curious situation of theatricalized life, it may take some time before the stage-life becomes as dramatic as what is taking place outside the theater. When does the curtain fall? How do we know when the unification performance is over? All performances are marked by specific boundaries which denote spatial and time limits. Boundaries also clarify the relationship between the performers and the audience. The Berlin Wall once delineated Germany’s borders and now the Wall’s gaps have defined the parameters of the unification performance—at least in its first phase. This “act” concerns the aftermath of unification, its liminality, and a divided and doubled people’s attempts to become a unified nation. One may note a gradual decentering of boundaries within Germany. Present remapping efforts incorporate the vacant territories which the Wall once marked. In fact, the invisible German-German boundary has shifted to the country’s exterior borders, now emphasizing international limits. We may see in this redefinition of “German” borders a means to keep out the “other” (e.g., Balkan war refugees, asylum-seekers). Generally, both West and East Germans are only unified on this point: that Germany should stay German—whatever “Germanness” signifies. This development of a common cultural identity—concomitant with the reemergence of a new kind of nationalism in Germany—is intriguing both in terms of the political landscape and the theatrical scene. The decentering of geographical boundaries may ultimately shape the direction that the new German theater will take onstage. For the theater’s future course is essentially related to the general redefinition of boundaries. Perhaps once the political and social climate in Germany becomes clearer we may expect more pronounced trends in the cultural sphere—specifically, reflective reinterpretations on stage of the present German performance occurring within the threshold. References Aman, Anders (1992) Architecture and Ideology in Eastern Europe during the Stalin Era: An Aspect of Cold War History, translated by Roger and Kerstin Tanner. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press Borneman, John (1992) Belonging in the Two Berlins: Kinship, State, and Nation. Cambridge: Cambridge UP Goffman, Erving (1959) The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. New York: Doubleday Grünenberg, Antonia (1990) Aufbruch der inneren Mauer: Politik und Kultur in der DDR, 1971–1990 (The Breaking of the Inner Wall: Politics and Culture in the GDR). Bremen: Edition Temmen Hall, Edward T. (1969) The Hidden Dimension. New York: Doubleday

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Hage, Volker (1993) Wir müssen uns dem Schicksal stellen (We must answer to our Fate: the case of Christa Wolf). Der Spiegel 8 Feb.: 197–199 Hare, Paul A. and Herbert H.Blumberg (1988) Eds. Dramaturgical Analysis of Social Interaction. New York: Praeger Heinrich, Rolf (1989) Der vormundschaftliche Staat: vom Versagen des real existierenden Sozialismus (The Warden State: The Failure of Really Existing Socialism). Reinbeck: Rowohlt Hetterle, Albert (1991) Interview. Die Deutsche Bühne Theatermagazin 10 (October), 27–29 Kampf um die Seele (Struggle for the Soul) (1992) Der Spiegel, 27 April, 36–43 Königsdorf, Helga (1992) Uberleben wäre eine prima Alternative (Survival Would Be an Excellent Alternative). Berliner Zeitung 22/23 Feb.:35 Maaz, Hans-Joachim (1990) Der Gefühlsstau (The Emotion Jam) Berlin: Argon ——(1991) Das gestürzte Volk oder die verunglückte Einheit (The Fallen People or the Failed Unity). Berlin: Argon Maron, Monika (1988) Trotzdem Herzliche Grüße (Heartfelt Greetings, Anyway.) edited by Antonia Grünenberg. Frankfurt: Fischer Reißig, Jens (1991) Rückkehr nach Europa. Munich: Carl-Hanser Reißig, Rolf (1991) Der Umbruch in der DDR und das Scheitern des “realen existierenden Sozialismus” (The Upheaval of the GDR and the Failure of the “Really Existing Socialism”). In Das Ende eines Experiments, edited by Reißig and Glaeßner, pp. 12– 59. Berlin: Dietz Schechner, Richard (1992) The Future of Ritual: Writings on Culture and Performance. New York: Routledge ——(1982) The Natural/Artificial Controversy Renewed. In The End of Humanism: Writings on Performance, edited by Schechner and McNamara, pp. 79–92. New York: Performing Arts Journal ——(1990) Editor. By Means of Performance. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. ——(1990) Magnitudes of Performance. In By Means of Performance, edited by Schechner and Appel, pp. 19–49. Cambridge: Cambridge UP Scherer, Klaus-Juergen (1990) Gab es eine DDR Identität? In Das Ende eines Experiments, edited Reißig and Glaeßner, pp. 296–316. Berlin: Dietz Schölling, Traute (1993) On With the Show? The Transition to Post-Socialist Theatre in Eastern Germany. Theatre Journal 45 (1), 21–33 Sieg, Katrin (1993) Reconfiguring History and Identity in Post-Wall Germany. Theatre Journal 45 (1), 35–47 Turnbull, Colin (1990) Liminality: A Synthesis of Subjective and Objective Experience. In By Means of Performance, edited by Schechner and Appel, pp. 50–81. Cambridge: Cambridge UP Turner, Victor (1967) The Forest of Symbols. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell UP. ——(1982) From Ritual to Theatre. New York: Performing Arts Journal. ——(1990) Are There Universals of Performance in Myth, Ritual, and Drama? In By Means of Performance, edited by Schechner and Appel, pp. 8–18. Cambridge: Cambridge UP Wilshire, Bruce (1982) Role-playing and Identity: The Limits of Theatre as Metaphor. Bloomington, Indiana

Iphigenia, King Arthur, and the East German State after Unification Phil McKnight

Goethe’s classical Iphigenia in Tauris provided an opportunity to stage issues pertinent to the reconciliation of the peoples of the two German states. However, the language of these two peoples developed over the 40-year existence of the two states in such different ways that the alienation felt towards each other is more poignantly expressed than a common language of reconciliation. The financial difficulties of the performing arts in the five new states of the former GDR are about to reach a breaking point with the planned withdrawal of federal subsidies for theater, subsidies which will have to be assumed by the financially-strapped states in the Eastern part of Germany. Restructuring will be absolutely necessary, and even with massive reductions in people employed in the theaters, smaller seasonal repertoires, and joint ensembles, the danger of being subsumed by pop culture is very real. Drama needs conflict to function as a social provocation and the context in which GDR dramatists wrote has been eliminated with the unification of the two German states. As evident in Christoph Hein’s The Knights of the Round Table, the generational conflicts evident in some of the last plays from the GDR portray an older generation incapable of establishing new ideals. Dramatists working in the East must gain experience in the emerging new social context and discover the language necessary to describe and dramatize the new issues which will strike a nerve in society, causing renewed interest in the performing arts. KEY WORDS: Productions of Iphigenia, Volker Braun, Christoph Hein, Elimination of subsidies for performing arts in Germany, Restructuring of theaters in Germany, Closing of the Schiller-Theater in Berlin, Alienation of Unification

> Many of the cynical humorists who lived in the GDR, including the likes of Bertolt Brecht, Franz Fühmann and Heiner Müller, consoled—or anguished—themselves with the maxim that the alternative to socialism was barbarism. With the disbandment of the tiny German socialist republic it was perhaps no accident that Goethe’s

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Iphigenia in Tauris, the classical representation of the humanistic triumph of civilization over barbarity, found its way onto a number of German stages to open the public debate regarding just which side was really the barbarians, after all—a debate which is likely to continue for another decade or two. Iphigenia Alexander Lang, who established himself after the 1979 departure of Volksbühne director Benno Besson as the most gifted and critically daring of East German stage directors in the early and mid-eighties, secured his reputation with a remarkable staging of Georg Büchner’s Danton’s Death at the Deutsches Theater in Berlin, in which he had Christian Grashof play the roles of both Danton and Robespierre in order to force the traditional heroization of Robespierre in socialist countries into the dialectical sphere of public criticism and discussion. Lang followed this with his production of Christoph Hein’s The True Story of Ah Q, which ran for years in the adjacent Kammerspiel and which dispelled the official ideological idea that normal GDR citizens had any serious notions about socialist or other revolutions. After the fall of the Wall, Lang proceeded to stage Goethe’s Iphigenia at the Schiller-Theater in the Western sector of Berlin, a staging which was poorly received by theater critics and public alike. Goethe’s original play portrays the stately and graceful triumph of the beautiful soul Iphigenia over the barbaric customs of King Thoas, whose law required her, as his priestess, to sacrifice captured foreigners. She saves her captured brother Orestes by ending these barbaric practices. With the unerring logic and powerful sublimity of reason, she convinces Thoas to accept her as a platonic friend for life (giving up his aspirations to marry her) and to let both her and Orestes go back to Greece, the cradle of civilization. In doing so she asseverates the lofty humanistic ideal of reconciliation and effects the disseverance of the mentality of conflict from this ideal. The barbaric male creed that the winner should take all, that the stronger, the more clever man determines what is right and just, is rejected. The end of socialism and the Cold War, which culminated in the unification of Germany, provided ample opportunity to set Goethe’s play in the context of reconciliation between East and West Germans. Of course, the fall of the Berlin wall, as Christoph Hein has pointed out, served more as a catalyst for the recognition of the differences which had become ingrained in the people living on either side than as an opportunity to explore their affinities. The two sides “had become alienated from each other, long before the fall of the Wall” and the euphoric moments of unification could not obscure the fact that they would need “interpreters in order to communicate,” so alienated from each other had their languages become when spoken other than “on sentimental commemorative holidays” (Hein, 1992a:17–18). Lang’s staging completely offended the purists’ view of classical Goethe and failed to find the elusive artistic language with which to communicate the issues during and after unification. Actually, this was Lang’s second production of Iphigenia; the first, at the Deutsches Theater in 1984, drew on the emotional and widespread peace movements which emerged in both Germanies in reaction to the US decision to station short-range nuclear missiles in West Germany capable of destroying East Germany and other socialist Eastern European countries. Not to be

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forgotten is the GDR’s repressive position, which did not tolerate the popular peace movements that developed all over the country and blatantly propagated the idea that the GDR should lay down its weapons as well. By contrast, the “official doctrine,” to put it bluntly, insisted on the removal of the missiles in the name of peace but maintained the GDR’s right to develop its own arsenal. Most of this early “subversive” and emotionally charged activity took place in the sanctuary of the churches—which continued with similar political activity throughout the eighties— and the GDR police arrested numerous individuals involved. However, theater courtyards were also an important gathering place for demonstrators, a tradition which became especially prominent during the last days of the Berlin Wall when the theaters, realizing that the real theater was playing itself out in the streets instead of on their stages, shut down and took a leadership role in the October and November demonstrations, particularly in Berlin. In 1984, Lang was able to strike a chord of understanding for both Eastern and Western audiences. In that production he represented Goethe’s appeal to pure reason, at five minutes before midnight, as the last possibility to salvage civilization. The memorable finale showed Iphigenia’s despair (after failing to move Thoas and Orestes to accept peaceful co-existence) and her silent plea to the audience. The 1991 version, according to Ingeborg Pietsch’s review in Theater der Zeit (the former GDR’s principal theater review journal) was a “disappointing bust, and a generally trivial production” (75). The audience indeed was taken aback not only by the depiction of Iphigenia more or less as a naive and coquettish 16-year-old girl, but also by Thoas’ urges to rape her and Orestes’ fits of trauma, which resembled epileptic attacks. Iphigenia demonstrates none of the pain and awareness of her traditional dilemma. The finale was also highly problematic for the new public after unification: Pylades, Orestes’ true comrade in arms, returns to make a gift of a Walkman radio to Arkas, Thoas’ loyal servant and the mediator between him and Iphigenia. Arkas is so fascinated by the Walkman that he doesn’t notice Pylades stealing the sacred statue of Diana from under his nose. The simple barbarians are duped in the end. This dissatisfying ending, however, was intended to question the arrogance of the civilized conquerors, i.e. the West Germans who preyed on the appetite for Western wares among GDR citizens who rushed at the first opportunity—and at considerable easy-credit indebtedness—to acquire those items from Western consumer culture which in their very nature suggest a deculturalized (or barbaric) mentality. Symptomatic for the new audience, however, was a new lack of interest in such political issues—especially since the East had been conquered and it was time to move on to more aesthetic issues. Except for the occasional great performances directed by Peter Stein and and a few other star directors, Berlin theaters on both sides of the Wall in the eighties had degenerated, as one critic put it, into a “theater of allusion, maneuvering its subject matter into current social topics,” and this was compounded by the “entrenched bureaucratic” financial security most of the overstaffed theaters enjoyed (Matussek, 1990:280). Such comments belittled the creative force of the “Regietheater” so central to the East German stage, which relied on using the past—and plays set in the past—to confront the future. Christoph Hein had issued a warning as early as 1987 about allowing theater to replace the lack of a free press and for people not to confuse this ersatz with literature. Nevertheless, “the past,” according to one of Hein’s many statements on the subject, “is the

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unchangeable, certain and, to a considerable extent, secured portion of our present; indeed, because of its unchangeability, because of the impossibility for any subsequent correction of history, the past is the most disturbing and bewildering part of our present” (Hein, 1990b:249). For this reason history has traditionally provided the most viable and the most volatile subject matter for drama. Hein’s statement constitutes, however, the voice which would be lost in the wilderness of new theatrical conditions created, in part, by the merging of new mentalities rushing to forget the past and to embrace the future, and, even more significantly, by the slashing of budgets and personnel in theaters both East and West. Obviously, reduced budgets and falling attendance were most devastating in the East, where local funding would become extremely scarce and difficult to secure. As the Iphigenia theme continued to interest directors in Germany (including a staging by Annegret Ritzels in Wiesbaden in the form of a chic but decadent salon drama, with Iphigenia in an evening gown and chain-smoking Orestes and the other men in tuxedos, threatening each other with revolvers), Volker Braun stepped into the new situation with Iphigenia in Freedom. The play, staged in Frankfurt by Michael Pehlke and in Cottbus by Karlheinz Liefers, was reviewed in Theater heute as a “spectacular flop: Volker Braun has not written a play at all. No one in Frankfurt could understand what was being said and shown” (Wille, 1993:16). For Franz Wille, who reviewed the play, Pylades and Orestes, tastelessly overdressed, incorporated, in a mundane manner, an idea of how people in the West imagine that capitalism must appear to those in the East. The reception of Braun’s Bohemia on the Sea had not fared well the year before, either—an indication that German audiences were simply not in the mood to cope with polemical presentations of depravity and corruption in both East and West after unification. In Iphigenia in Freedom, Braun follows the lead of Heiner Müller (as he had done for several years) by filling his obscure dialogue with numerous quotes, including at the beginning a joke of Müller’s made shortly before the end of the Berlin Wall about a man named Volker expressing bemusement at all the people crying “We are the people [das Volk], We are one people [ein Volk].”1 Volker’s name implies that he is “a person,” as distinguished from “the people,” who are flowing unreflectively with the spontaneity of mass psychology. In his notes to the short play, Braun indicates his intention to portray a continuation—or deterioration—of Lang’s original 1984 Iphigenia as a forlorn figure for whom the classical issues of peaceful coexistence have become totally irrelevant. Humanism is understood as the demonstration of might, as when Orestes’ elite troops land in Somalia: “The world of the Greeks and the barbarians is one…the sacred temple in ruins, only an empty space where it stood. The scene is the place in the human breast which is locked up by the Iron Curtain, it opens up to the action on stage, which displays the bodies radiantly, until the diffusing light of their proud inner landscape swallows them up” (Braun, 1993:144–145). Braun’s language is a difficult challenge for a director and even more so for the audience, especially for a German audience which no longer flocks to the theater to engage in the burning political issues of the day. In spite of having borrowed the “I am Volker” comment (or was it 1

See the 1990 Der Spiegel interview with Heiner Müller (139).

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Müller who overheard Braun make the comment during the November demonstrations?), Braun does not seem to realize that the larger political issues have been replaced, at least until the inequalities resulting from unification create more extreme conditions of political conflict, by the private sphere, by issues of survival, adaptation and material security, all issues, incidentally, which Büchner long ago succinctly wove into the characters of the people affected by Danton and Robespierre. The East German Stage after Unification Despite sweeping claims to the contrary in the West German media during the socalled Literaturstreit (Conflict over Literature), the eighties saw a departure from Sotialist Realism and the advent of a highly critical literature in the writings of Christoph Hein (whose plays actually were performed), Volker Braun, Heiner Müller, and Günter de Bruyn. Central censorship ended for all practical purposes following Hein’s famous speech at the 1987 Writers’ Union Congress. These writers were essentially in favor of socialism but steadfastly opposed to dogmatic views and Stalinist repressive measures. They attempted to present their works in such a way that the audience or reading public would have to draw its own critical conclusions, which invariably ran counter to the prevailing ideology of the state. Contrary to the implications of the “theater of allusion” concept, drama cannot exist without conflict, and the essence and content of socialist conflict disappeared in 1989 almost overnight, to be replaced by the conflict between Germans who were alienated from each other, especially in an East now twice-conquered in 40 years and feeling a strong identity with Antigone, or—even more appropriately—with the fate of her brother Polynices, whose body was left by decree to the dogs and vultures without a proper burial. Even so, the general theater-going public has become indifferent to Antigone—perhaps she deserved her fate for attempting to bury her brother with dignity. Hein, for one, temporarily ceased writing plays after the grotesquely misunderstood Knights of the Round Table, first staged in March, 1989; Braun has been unable to strike a nerve since his Transition Society, written in 1982 but not staged until the fall of the Wall; and Müller has survived by producing some of his own works at the Berliner Ensemble and with guest productions at other theaters, a practice which is now being strongly called into question as fiscally unsound, inasmuch as prominent directors command DM 125,000–250,000 or more for each such guest production.2 Audience interest has shifted from Hein, Braun, and Müller to Botho Strauß and Elfriede Jelenik.

2

A new play by Hein, Randow: eine Komödie, was published in late 1994 by Aufbau Verlag and subsequently produced in Dresden. At least a brief comment on this play should be mentioned here, inasmuch as the manuscript promises to be another extremely important and controversial contribution to the German stage. Two anonymous foreigners are murdered in a field near the Polish border, and a single woman, Anna Andress, who lives and works as a painter in a house nearby, is driven from her home by the fear of violence, by village elders who covet the property, by a conspiracy on the part of the Western trust set up to re-privatize property in the East, and by instances of Neo-Nazi

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Writing between the fall of the Wall and unification, a frustrated Heiner Müller complained that theaters were producing “disposable culture” (Wegwerfkultur): “The theaters are just there like an empty hole that needs to be filled. One is afraid that the hole will be noticed. The repertoire runs only on the basis of this horror vacui” (1990b:63). However production conditions may have changed since unification, nothing is more prominent in the minds of theater intendants than the choices required to fill empty seats, not in order to save face, but in order to meet slashed budgets. In easily the most stunning theatrical development since unification, the SchillerTheater was shut down almost exactly two years after Lang’s production of Iphigenia by the Berlin cultural authorities, a step taken to forestall the financial disasters which were about to ensue as a result of the federal government’s decision to withdraw the massive, decades-old subsidies for the arts. Each city and state will have to assume the financial responsibility for its own cultural events beginning in 1995. To be sure, the closing of the Schiller-Theater in the Fall of 1993 was to the financial benefit of stages in the Eastern portion of Berlin, especially the Volksbühne and the Berliner Ensemble, whose viability had up to that time been seriously called into question. The Deutsches Theater, under the direction of Thomas Langhoff (like Lang, one of the outstanding directors of the former GDR), will get an additional DM 2 million, and Frank Castorf at the Volksbühne, which most insiders had expected to be the first theater to fall, will be able to apply an additional DM 5 million to his operating budget.3 The seriousness of the situation for theaters in Germany is evident in the decision of the Advisory Commission of the Ministry of the Interior, which, with the compliant understanding of the states, agreed to increase the total subsidies from the originally planned DM 350 million to DM 650 million for 1993. The agreement stipulated, however, that this sum would be reduced to DM 500 million in 1994, and that in 1995 the Federal Government will cease paying subsidies altogether. To put this in proper perspective: West German theaters had one of their best seasons ever in 1992, when they earned 17.9% of their budget from the box office, the highest percentage in 20 years.4 This means that over 80% of the budgets for performing arts will have to be raised elsewhere. With unification, East German theaters had to immediately triple their prices, which were extremely low, and which had made theater all the more accessible. Their salaries were about half of those in the West, but their cost of living was far below the standard in the West. Although prices went up for housing, food and just about everything else, salaries did not increase to Western levels. All

activity in the area. The play also treats issues of unemployment and alcoholism in the eastern part of Germany, estrangement between older and younger generations, broken families, and an identity crisis experienced by the artist which can be interpreted as a reaction to unification. Hein’s mastery of authentic language captures a deeply rooted segment of German mentality within the context of uncomfortable current issues. 3 See Merschmeier, 1. The August 1993 issue of Theater heute in which this article appears also contains other articles on the closing of the Schiller-Theater, including a compilation of documents and reactions to the Berlin Senate decision. 4 Cf. Weber, 49.

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theaters reduced their full time employment staffs drastically, including artistic personnel, in some cases from five or six hundred to 150. The lull in interest in theater was exacerbated by the serious unemployment situation in the East, which continues to hover around 30% in many places, the official government figure of 8% (which itself is intolerable to Germans) notwithstanding. The broken economy, the prolonged legal hassles over property, and general disillusionment do not likely provide any real basis for the five new states in the East to properly subsidize theater beginning in 1995. The Minister of Culture in the former GDR had reported annual attendance figures of roughly 10 million for the 70 public theaters towards the end of the country’s existence, an amazing figure for a total population of 16 million people. Whereas Dresden, Leipzig, Berlin (which has too many theaters) and several other large cities may be able to make the adjustments necessary to support their theaters and operas, many of the 50-odd theaters in smaller towns and cities in the former GDR will not be able to survive without making drastic structural changes in their operations and their program offerings. Peter von Becker suggested that theaters in such locations can avoid closing by adapting themselves to present concerts, films, exhibitions, literature readings and discussions and guest performances (von Becker, 1993:2). Most agree that guest performances would have to be limited in number, that guest directors would have to be willing to work with the performing theater’s company, and that a standardized schedule of honorarium payments should be created to keep the budget within a reasonable limit. Other suggestions, such as those raised concerning Dresden, Leipzig, Chemnitz and Zwickau (fusion of the orchestras of several stages with the city philharmonica, combination of the musical comedy theater with the opera, creation of a regional company which moves from town to town—not an uncommon practice in the West) have not always been well received. The budget crisis for theaters in the eastern part of Germany is nowhere more evident than in Rostock, which was one of the most prominent stages outside Berlin, a stage where many actors and directors got their start. The Intendant since 1990, Berndt Renne, was released without notice in February of 1993, despite having increased attendance by over 50% by producing 27 plays in 1992, including 765 performances and concerts, with a mix of musicals and operas, socially critical plays and classics. Renne was supposed to have conducted business with a budget planned to be reduced from eleven to nine million Marks. Instead, he increased the budget on the basis of incomparable wage structures in the West to 29 million Marks and fought to keep the number of employees at around 380—down from the 500 who worked there before unification. Unfortunately, the city of Rostock was reeling under a DM 100 million budget deficit itself. The new Intendant, Inge Flimm, was planning to reduce the number of play productions to 13 per season and to introduce programs designed to attract a youthful public with music and discussions.5 In an effort to combat the decline of support for performing arts and the corresponding displacement of cultural issues by other economic priorities, the German Stage Union prepared 16 proposals for a conference on the future of the German stage held in Munich in October 1993. To some extent, these proposals reveal a difficulty on their part with confronting the reality apparent in the budget

5

Cf. Krug, 9ff.

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situation in Rostock and in other areas of Eastern Germany. Included are statements to the effect that the theater itself will have complete control over its budget, not wishing to be micro-managed from above, and that the management of the theater must incorporate artistic and organizational competency into its structure. To name a few others: the number of star-productions by guest directors and actors should be limited; production of scenery needs to be coordinated with rehearsals and performances in an economical fashion; the number of rehearsals will be brought into line with union demands; in times of scarce resources these should be concentrated on the theater and the orchestra instead of on festivals and other activities in the artistic community; intendants who direct plays in their own house should no longer receive an additional honorarium for doing so, and his or her guest productions at other theaters should be limited in number and time.6 Nowhere to be found in the proposals, however, is a suggestion that the theater in the eastern part of Germany must once again discover a language which strikes a deep nerve in society, as it had done in the eighties. This is the creative challenge and function of theater and the key element for the acquisition of financial support as well. The most serious question for the theater in the East is whether or not the playwrights of the former GDR will be able to succeed. In a book published in 1989, the noted GDR scholar Peter Reichel discussed the work of the young generation, those writers between 25 and 35 years of age, from whom the next prominent dramatists would have emerged. His description of their chosen subject matter is of interest. Under the influence of Hein and Müller, and perhaps of Braun and Lothar Trolle, their writing bore little, if any, resemblance to the established socialist literature. Their subject matter criticized social reality: children growing up under statesupervised day care, young people working in trade shops, asocial lives in condemned houses, repression at school, the generation gap between a directionless youth and parents who were trapped in the need to achieve and develop a successful (socialist) career, divorce, abortion, alcoholism, sickness, death, murder, suicide, secret police action, illegal escapes from the GDR, and the criminalization of dissident or critical expression (Reichel, 1989:19). Life in the former GDR has changed, however, and so has the subject matter of daily experience; many of the above subjects, although they bear a resemblance to the rebellions of the 60s, are unlikely to play to an audience in the late 90s. King Arthur Responding to the question of why he had remained in the GDR, Christoph Hein recently pointed out that in his role as a chronicler of the time, he had little interest in moving away from the contemporary history with which he was so familiar, and had, in fact, described the end of the GDR eleven times—beginning in 1974 with Cromwell, the title figure of which bears a resemblance to Erich Honecker, and ending with The Knights of the Round Table, in which King Arthur, contrary to misrepresentations in the press, bears no resemblance at all to Honecker or any other member of the

6

Cf.“Ein Beginn,” 16–17.

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Politburo (Hein, 1992b). The disillusioned, bickering old fools and their resigned, sarcastic women act out the end of their own era at a Round Table in disrepair, where women and children sit on the famous Seige Perilous as a joke, showing the failure of one generation to realize its ideals and the inability of the next generation to establish any new ideals. The illusive Grail is defined enigmatically by Orilus, himself a subject of ridicule by his wife, who believes that all the knights need to do is to stage another grand jousting tournament to restore their glory and the faith of their youth: It was a gigantic jeweled stone, say some, from which a miraculous shining light emanates. Others say it was the sun table of the Ethiopians, which decked itself every night with new dishes of food. Even others say the Grail is the place where the earthly paradise used to be. And even others call it a place of great sins, Mount Venus, where the people live in dancing and carnal desires. All agree only on one thing, that it is the highest and most secret thing in the whole world. This probably explains why some call the Grail God, others the Mother Mary or, simply, the one you love. (Hein, 1990a:42) The original performance in Dresden, directed by Klaus Dieter Kirst, was shown on German television in October 1993. The play had been immensely popular on European stages in the 1989 and 1990 seasons, when it was understood most often as ridicule of the GDR’s aged functionaries. In October 1993 it had a different effect, more universal, it would seem, inasmuch as the dissident subject matter of GDR theater, the political and social criticism, has been separated from its context. The conditions under which dramas were written and theater was produced have changed, and the current historical impact of such Hein plays as Cromwell, The True Story of Ah Q, or Lasalle asks Mr. Herbert about Sonja. The Scene a Salon has lessened according to the lack of interest in historical revolutionary issues in general. It remains to be seen whether plays like Büchner’s Danton’s Death lose their popularity as well, or whether the internal conflict of the individual psychology supercedes the portrayal of political issues in ensuing performances. After all, Brecht’s Threepenny Opera plays to the amusement of high society and their enjoyment of the now canonical cultural aspect of the music in that work, Brecht’s critical intent having become irrelevant. The “Grail” of de-Stalinized socialism sought by GDR dramatists at great sacrifice to personal comfort and safety was elusive and illusive, and when it proved unattainable, the Grail of the West German Mark proved to be fool’s gold for most people in the East. Whichever of Orilus’ descriptions of the Grail may have applied to old and young GDR dramatists, they have been displaced by history, leaving only the knowledge that much will be destroyed, as Mordred confirms to Arthur at the end of the Hein’s play. Mordred has no idea what, if anything, he will do; he only knows that the Round Table belongs in a museum and that he will not be a knight. It will take some time before people may be interested in visiting such a museum, probably, and it will take some time before East German dramatists figure out which direction they must take to discover the appropriate language for their work, and before they have experienced enough of the new social context to chronicle and dramatize the important issues confronted by a society with diminishing ideals. Penthesilea was Heinrich von Kleist’s response to Goethe’s great enlightened humanistic “Grail” in Iphigenia. For Kleist, human beings were too irrational, too incapable of expressing themselves, too driven by passion and social obligation, to be

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anything other than barbarians, as demonstrated by the violent atrocities Penthesilea perpetrates on her lover, tearing his flesh with her teeth, and then on herself, forming a dagger in her mind with which she kills herself. Socialism will probably not be replaced by the “barbarism” of the West, but it is likely to seem like it to a significant portion of the population in the East for another two decades, and this includes the playwrights. The unities of historical time, the integrity of location in the uncertainty of the theaters themselves, and the plot have all been altered. References Ein Beginn der (un)freiwilligen Selbstkontrolle? Dokumentation. (1993) [Anonymously edited.] Theater heute, No. 12, 16–18 Braun, Volker (1993) Texte in zeitlicher Folge, Band 10. Halle: Mitteldeutscher Verlag Hein, Christoph (1990a) Die Ritter der Tafelrunde. Frankfurt am Main: Luchterhand ——(1990b) Die Zeit, die nicht vergehen kann oder Das Dilemma des Chronisten. In Kopfbahnhof. Das falsche Dasein. Almanach 2, pp. 245–269. Leipzig: Reclam ——(1992a) Ansichten einer deutschen Kleinstadt, leicht retuschiert. In Neue Deutsche Literatur, No. 4, 9–30 ——(1992b) “Warum ich in der DDR geblieben bin.” Gespräch mit dem Schriftsteller Christoph Hein. (Interview.) Theater heute, No. 4, 31–36 Krug, Hartmut (1993) Schauerposse als Lehrstück. Sparnote, Kulturkampf und Theaterkrise in Rostock. Theater heute, No. 4, 9–10 Matussek, Matthias (1990) Kultur oder Leben. Der Speigel, No. 44, 280–284 Merschmeier, Michael (1993) Friss und Stirb. Stirb und werde? Schiller-Theater Tod in Berlin: Das Ende des Subventions-Reichtums—Ein Beginn neuer Kreativität? Theater heute, No. 8, 1–2 Müller, Heiner (1990a) Jetzt ist da eine Einheitssoße. (Interview.) Der Spiegel, No. 31, 136–141 (1990b) Zur Lage der Nation. Berlin: Rotbuch Pietsch, Ingeborg (1991) Deutsche Klassik im Schiller-Theater. Theater der Zeit, No. 9, 74–77 Reichel, Peter (1989) Signaturen und Lesarten. Zur Dramatik der jungen Autorengeneration. Halle/Leipzig: Mitteldeutscher Verlag Von Becker, Peter (1993) Kultur muß kosten! Theater heute, No. 4, 1–2 Weber, Carl (1991) German Theatre Between the Past and the Future. Performing Arts Journal, No. 37, 43–59 Wille, Franz (1993) Zeitgeistshows: Sinn oder Stuss? Theater heute, No. 2, 12–17

A Review of Theatre Journal special issue: ‘Theatre After the F/Wall’ Kristie A.Foell

KEY WORDS: Silberman, Sieg, Sohlich, Schölling, Weber, Rouse, Brecht, Müller

> The interpretive possibilities provided by the March 1993 special issue of Theatre Journal begin with its title, which suggests the readings “After the Wall” and “After the Fall of the Wall,” but also “After the Fall” (i.e., the Autumn of 1989 and its revolutionary potential). Reading from the point of view of leftist nostalgia (or the slightly different Ostalgie, with a pun on the word for “East”), one might also read “after the fall from grace,” not only of the “other half” of the bipolar world and its projected utopia, but also of the heavily subsidized theater systems in both East and West Germany. Indeed, the six articles in this collection, written mostly from an oppositional perspective (leftist, Marxist, feminist, and “ex-GDR”), bear out such a reading of the issue’s title. Editor Janelle Reinelt’s brief introduction thematizes the collapse of a “whole episteme based on the Cold War binary” and the “disarray” of the left. Although she first intended to address this shift by including “material from all of Eastern Europe,” she fortunately “came to realize that any adequate analysis of historical change requires precise local specificity.” The decision to concentrate on Germany allows the essays gathered here to resonate with one another on a more complex level than a generalized discourse about the fall of communism would allow. First among the intellectual problems specific to the current German theater is the role of Bertolt Brecht, an institution (in different ways) in both of the “old” Germanies; articles by Marc Silberman and Wolfgang Sohlich reevaluate Brecht in the light of recent history and postmodernist theory. The future of the German (and especially East German) theater system is addressed by Traute Schölling, while thencurrent (1991/92) productions are reviewed by Carl Weber, whose contribution takes the form of a bittersweet reminiscence as he frequents his haunts of thirty years ago. The issue of memory that frames Weber’s article informs all the others as well, but is foregrounded most strongly in Katrin Sieg’s piece on “Reconfiguring History” and John Rouse’s “Heiner Müller and the Politics of Memory.” Whereas the East German

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government once disclaimed all responsibility for the Nazi past, acknowledging its share only in the glorious socialist future, postunification attitudes have shown a tendency to equate recent GDR history with fascism, thus transferring all the guilt of German history to one part of Germany. This drama of transference and repression is being played out not only on the stage of German history, but in the history of the German stage; the essays collected here offer snapshots of a few scenes in the ongoing drama. Marc Silberman’s article, “A Postmodernized Brecht?,” combines a cogent Brechtian critique of certain postmodernist tenets with an overview of Brecht’s reception and performance history in the two Germanies. Silberman finds the postmodernist model valid and useful insofar as it accurately describes and offers a conceptual handle on changing reality: [A] fundamental task of new concepts, such as Brecht’s Epic Theatre or postmodernism, is to coordinate changing forms of cultural and intellectual practice with changes in economic and social organization. The ever expanding forces of transnational and corporate capitalism, the market mechanisms of consumerism, the growth of communications technologies, the tendency to move away from classbased organising toward identity politics, all these factors demand new conceptual and analytical tools. (2) He states some important reservations, however, concerning the “suspiciously conservative force” exerted by the self-validation of any hot new academic theory, and the tendency of postmodernism to confine its inquiry to the text at the expense of extra-textual reality. The Brechtian concern for social engagement, certainly a necessity at this point in German history, also grounds Silberman’s critique of postmodernism’s “tendency to validate playful and improvisational forms of cultural representation and interpretation at the expense of meaning” and “to trace the play of signifiers and of intertextuality through a mode of difference that does not or can not recognize conflict and contradiction, [practices that] might well reflect the traditional class interest of the proverbial liberal intellectual in a period of threatened stability” (3). Two final objections prove most fruitful for Silberman’s project: first, Brecht’s utopianism itself provides an obstacle to a postmodern re-vision of Brecht, since “if postmodernism problematizes the entire notion of history as linguistic construct,… how can Brecht be reread through postmodernism? To cast a postmodern Brecht would mean…recasting him within the anti-utopian contradictions of contemporary theory” (5). Second, “If postmodernist theory has any coherency, it derives from a parasitic relation to the modernist project” (6). Thus in some sense the task is not to reread Brecht through postmodernism, but to reread postmodernism through Brecht. To greatly simplify Silberman’s subtle argument, the central question for dialogue between Brecht and postmodernism is the possibility of utopian thinking and social change. “Postmodernism,” writes Silberman, “relegates utopia to the status of an illusion, of a code word for the dream of an organically functioning community” (8). “[T]he instability and multiple positions that characterize postmodernist descriptions of the contemporary condition have eviscerated the concept of agency and the possibility of radical social change” (11). It is a reality of the postmodern world, rather than an ill effect of postmodernist theory, that “ideas of change and critical negation like Brecht’s have not only been coopted by the market economy but have been integrated into its very functioning strategies” (11). Silberman concludes that

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the Brecht the postmodern world needs is “a self-deconstructing [subject], constantly undoing the critic’s desire to master and objectify in order to become an identity” (12). In the ex-GDR, a sense of postmodernist destabilization has not led to a nonhierarchical, playful multiplicity of identities, but has rather sent the destabilized “planet” into orbit around the largest nearby body in a quest to “become like West Germany as quickly as possible” (12). Thus decenteredness becomes “a blockage for the very ability to think ‘difference.’” Since West Germany has not been similarly destabilized, East Germany’s uncertainty is a double-edged sword that could either open up new possibilities or lead to a repression and erasure of the GDR past. As the reader may surmise from the length of this summary, Silberman’s article provides the intellectual cornerstone for this collection, with other articles echoing or reinforcing what he says but not moving past him, at least in theoretical sophistication and insight. Traute Schölling’s essay on the future of the East German theater after reunification provides both valuable information and an impassioned appeal for the preservation of some aspects of the East German system. While it was certainly desirable to include an East German theater professional in this issue (Schölling was a dramaturge at the renowned Deutsches Theater and teaches in the field at [East] Berlin’s Humboldt University), it is sometimes hard to tell where she stands. After recalling the commitment made in Article 35 of the German Unification Treaty to stabilize funding and guarantee continuity for cultural institutions in Eastern Germany, Schölling calls this promise “a pious wish, a band-aid, an illusion” (22), noting that half the theaters in the East were in danger of being closed at the end of 1990. (The controversial closing of Berlin’s Schiller-Theater in 1993 only confirms the fact that funding for theater has softened considerably in Germany.) But Schölling, even while protesting the shift from “preservation” to “structural change” in theater politics, laments the fact that earlier opportunities for structural change were never acted upon: “Instead the dense network of communal theaters (Stadttheater) established by the bourgeoisie in the nineteenth century was protected, with its claim to cultural education and prestige and its function as an instrument of social distinction and hegemony” (22). This criticism applies to both “halves” of Germany, but Schölling then demonstrates that the proportion of communal theaters was actually much higher in the East (42% of its theaters were in cities of less than 50,000, as compared to 7% in the West). It seems, then, that Schölling would be on the side of “structural change,” and an opportunity to do away with these regressive remnants would be welcome. But Schölling goes on to argue for the necessity of these small theaters, basing her argument largely on the valuable role the theater artists play in their communities and on the “concept of sociability” (32) that (she asserts) was the foundation for theater in the GDR. Perhaps her vacillations are in themselves informative as a document of the times; it is appropriate that her article ends with a question she does not attempt to answer: “The people, one people—who are the people?” (33). The force of the author’s rhetoric is compromised in places by the translators’ adherence to German word order; while perfectly correct and comprehensible, the English does not read as naturally as in some of the other articles. Katrin Sieg’s provocative and brilliantly straightforward feminist analysis of conceptions and images of reunification is titled “The Revolution has been televised: Reconfiguring History and Identity in Post-Wall Germany.” Sieg first concentrates on “the emplotment of the so-called German ‘revolution’” (35) in several

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commercially distributed videos about reunification. (The notion of packaging, marketing, and selling a “people’s revolution” in MTV format is in itself enough to turn even a mildly leftist stomach.) A video produced by Der Spiegel shows East Germans breaking through a Berlin check-point, thus “reinterpreting the impetus of a diverse and diffuse uprising against the SED regime within the East-West dichotomy, and ascribing to it a single direction—westward, ho!” (36). Another video perpetuates the “generalized conflation of the socialist system with the Third Reich” by cutting from a GDR parade to a Nazi parade and commenting (in voiceover): “Those called themselves ‘socialists’ too: ‘National Socialists’” (37–38). The fact that this video, “Ode to Freedom,” is distributed by German government agencies lends official sanction to this facile equation. The feminist portion of Sieg’s analysis briefly covers some blatantly sexist aspects of the Christa Wolf controversy, the popular press’s (hetero) sexist portrayals of East Germany as the weak, “feminine” partner in the “marriage” of the two stages, and the exclusion of the women’s movement (in particular the Unabhängiger Frauenverband, or Independent Women’s Organization) from participation in the unification process, all of which has been covered elsewhere. She then offers readings of two feminist plays concerned with reunification: Austrian Elfriede Jelinek’s Totenauberg and Elfriede Müller’s Goldener Oktober. Since to summarize Sieg’s interpretations and arguments would also require summarizing the plots of the two plays (neither of which is simple), I can only recommend reading Sieg’s clearheaded analysis. Wolfgang Sohlich’s “The Dialectic of Mimesis and Representation in Brecht’s Life of Galileo” is part of a larger book project on Diderot, Ibsen, and Brecht. Sohlich shares with Silberman a skepticism about some of the premises of postmodernism even as he engages its terms in his discussion. Sohlich seems to affirm some aspects of postmodernism that Silberman questions, finding, for instance, a basis for revolutionary thought in the “nonhierarchical coexistence of the heterogeneous…. If the world is decentered, and each his or her own master, and if God is in each, then no one can be the source of surplus labor for another” (53). In Sohlich’s reading, Galileo falls away from this state of insight through his increasing acceptance of repressive divisions: subject/object, mind/body, the division of labor and resulting exploitation of workers. These divisions are represented, for instance, in Galileo’s progression from the “bare-chested thinker” of Scene 1 to his full regalia at the masked ball in Scene 7, or by the transition from the simple bread and water he eats near the beginning of the play to the highly refined palate he eventually acquires. For Sohlich, this latter point represents Galileo’s acceptance of the fact that he enjoys the benefits of surplus labor: “He eats his bread, being fully aware of how it is baked” (61). Somewhat perplexingly, Sohlich concludes: Galileo’s body simply consents to the present power arrangements…. To argue that Galileo’s sensualism runs counter to the revolutionary power of his thought, should not be construed as a moral indictment. The text simply indicates that a gap exists between the experience of the body of a prominent bourgeois intellectual…and the experience of the “proletarian” groups, for whom Galileo shows real sympathy. (62) This kind of moral reasoning (?) recalls Silberman’s invocation of Marcuse’s notion of “repressive tolerance.” Sohlich finally asserts, referring to Walter Benjamin’s essay “The Destructive Character,” that Galileo “never fully attains the heights of the destructive character” (whose revolutionary zeal clears a space for his utopia), but

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regresses to the state of “etui-man.” The accommodations of Galileo’s body are read as “a critique of the postmodernists’ dramaturgy of the mindless body” (64). Sohlich’s article is the only one of this collection not to specifically address issues of German unification (with which his book, admittedly, is not concerned). It makes, however, a productive counterpart to Marc Silberman’s piece, addressing many of the same issues, but on the basis of a close reading of a single text. There are certain problems with Sohlich’s written style, most notably a tendency to use commas in a way that would be correct in German but is not in English (sometimes placing a comma before the word “that” as though it were the German “daß,” or punctuating the phrase “those, [sic] who” in the German fashion [62]. Certainly the journal’s editors should have caught this and prevented the marring of an otherwise engaging reading experience. John Rouse’s “Heiner Müller and the Politics of Memory” (at under ten pages, the shortest piece in the collection) offers an overview of Müller’s recent activities as head of the East German Academy of the Arts and then summarizes Müller’s expanded 1991 production of his play Mauser. At stake in both undertakings is “a detailed and critical memory” (66). Rouse provides as good a summary as anyone of the various considerations to be weighed in the East-West Academy controversy; since this topic has been well-covered, however, theater readers will be more interested in Rouse’s summary of the pastiche-like staging of Mauser, which also incorporates his texts Quartet, The Foundling, and Herakles 13. A real treat awaits readers at the end of this collection: Carl Weber’s “Crossing the Footbridge Again, Or: A Semi-Sentimental Journey.” Weber, who worked at the Berliner Ensemble for nine years before the building of the Berlin Wall drove him to stay away, returns to his old haunts near the Schiffbauerdamm and regales the reader with his impressions of how places and institutions and personnel have changed or, surprisingly, not changed in the past thirty years. Along the way he offers a wideranging “review” of the 1991/92 theater season in Berlin, complete with reports on actors, set designs, and the game of musical directors’ chairs that was in progress in Berlin during the season. Like any good reminiscence, this essay rambles; and like any good insider reviewer, Weber provides plenty of personal histories and character insights along with his professional opinions. The rich detail of Weber’s descriptions defies synopsis; the directors he reviews include Thomas Langhoff, Friedo Solter, Heiner Müller, Frank Castorf and the erstwhile Intendant of the Berliner Ensemble, Manfred Wekwerth. One world premiere, Lothar Trolle’s Hermes in the City, is reviewed, as are two recent productions germane to the unification theme, Volker Braun’s Transitional Society and George Seidel’s Villa Youth. Weber devotes a good deal of space to the “Gang of Five” who now run the Berliner Ensemble (as well he might have at the time, when no one was sure whether this arrangement would come off). The volume is easily accessible to those with no knowledge of the German language, since all quotations and titles are strictly in English (with the occasional footnote to explain an untranslatable pun).

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Notes on Contributors

Jochen Berg (Strangers in the Night) lives and writes in East Berlin. Trained as an actor, he was official house author of the Deutsches Theater from 1974 to 1990. For political reasons, none of his plays were produced in East Germany during this time. Christoph Funke (The Brechtian Legacy of Theater in the German Democratic Republic), a Diplom-Germanist, studied with Hans Meyer at Karl Marx University in Leipzig from 1952–1956. He has worked as a theater critic since 1956 and is the author of a dozen books dealing with directors, actors, set designers, and theatrical productions in the GDR. Christoph Hein (The Knights of the Round Table), long a resident of East Berlin, was and is one of the most influential and critical writers of the (former) GDR. His plays, such as The True Story of Ah Koo, Passage, and The Knights of the Round Table, enjoyed numerous productions in East and West throughout the 1980s, and his novels The Distant Lover, Horn’s Fate, The Tango Player and The Napoleon Game have drawn popular and critical acclaim. His latest book, Execution of a Calf, is a collection of short stories, and his recent play Randow deals with the post-Wende East. Jost Hermand (Discursive Contradictions: Questions about Heiner Müller’s “Autobiography”) is William F.Vilas Research Professor of German at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, USA. He is the author of numerous critical treatments of East German literature. Marna King (Viewer Beware: Reception of East German Theater) is a professor of design at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, USA. Her research interests include Brecht’s work at the Berliner Ensemble and the function of scenography in contemporary German theater. She was a Fulbright grant recipient in the Federal Republic of Germany in 1989. Her publications have appeared in Theatre Journal, Gestus,Communications from IBS, and Theatre Directors: An International Directory.

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Joachim Lucchesi (From Questioning to Condemnation: The Debate over Brecht/ Dessau’s 1951 Opera Lucullus) was born in 1948 in Brandenburg/Havel in occupied Germany. He studied Musicology at Humboldt University in East Berlin, receiving a doctorate for work on contemporary stage music in 1977. From 1976–1993 he was a research fellow with the Music Research Division of the GDR Academy of Arts, and since 1993 with the Berlin-Brandenburg Academy of Arts. He is a board member for the European Brecht Society and the Kurt Weill Society, and teaches at the AliceSalomon-Fachhochschule Berlin, and at the Technische Universität Berlin. Among his books on 20th century music history was Musik bei Brecht (co-author Ronald K.Shull), Hermann Scherchen: Werke und Briefe, Vol. 1 (editor), and Das Verhor in der Oper: Die Debatte um Brecht/Dessaus “Lukullus” 1951 (editor). Phillip S.McKnight (Iphigenia, King Arthur, and the East German Stage After Unification) is associate professor and chair of the Department of Germanic Languages and Literatures at the University of Kentucky, USA. He has published on 18th century German authors, on satire, and on authors and literature of the German Democratic Republic, where he spent seven summers (1983–1989) on research projects. He brought a number of prominent GDR authors to the USA for events at UK as well as at the Actors’ Theater in Louisville, including playwrights Christoph Hein, Volker Braun, and Holger Teschke. Anthony Meech (Christoph Hein: “Engagement” in the GDR) lectures in Drama at the University of Hull, England. He has published translations of plays from all periods of German drama (including works by Christoph Hein and Botho Strauß), as well as articles on Brecht and contemporary German theater, in particular that of the former GDR. Ulrich Profitlich and Frank Stucke (“Only Limited Utopias are Realizable”: On a Motif in the Plays of Peter Hacks) both teach modern German literature at the Free University of Berlin. N. Ann Rider (“Not Peasant Stew! Real Theater for the People”: Walfriede Schmitt Talks About East German Theater) is assistant professor of German at Indiana State University, USA. She was a Fulbright scholar to the GDR in 1987 and 1988 and is currently completing a manuscript on novelist Günter de Bruyn. David W. Robinson (Introduction; Christoph Hein Between Ideologies, or, Where do the Knights of the Round Table Go after Camelot Falls?, and translator of Hein’s Knights of the Round Table) is an associate professor of English and director of the Comparative Literature program at Georgia Southern University, USA. He spent six months in the GDR in 1988 on a Fulbright fellowship and has published articles on James Joyce, William Faulkner, Heiner Müller, and Christoph Hein. Rebecca Rovit (Towards German Unity: Performance Within the Threshold), a theater historian, was most recently a visiting assistant professor in the Theatre and Drama Department at Indiana University. Her essays on German theater past and present—have appeared in such publications as American Theatre and The Drama

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Review. She is currently writing about the relationship between theatrical representation and cultural identity for German Jewish artists who belonged to the Jewish Kulturbund theater in Germany’s Third Reich. Katrin Sieg (The Poets and the Power: Heiner Müller, Christa Wolf, and the German Literaturstreit) teaches German at Indiana University, USA. She has published a book and numerous articles in the areas of German theater, women’s performance practices, and feminist criticism. Marc Silberman (Introduction to and translation of Jochen Berg’s play Strangers in the Night) is professor of German at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, USA, and editor of the Brecht Yearbook/Brecht-Jahrbuch for the International Brecht Society. He has translated and published on Bertolt Brecht, Heiner Müller, and East German literature, and has a history of the German cinema forthcoming at Wayne State University Press. Carl Weber (Periods of Precarious Adjustment: Some Notes on the Theater’s Situation At the Beginning and After the End of the Socialist German State) was an assistant director for Bertolt Brecht and an actor and dramaturge with Brecht’s Berliner Ensemble from 1952 to 1956. After Brecht’s death, he was a resident director with the company until 1961, also directing for other theaters and for Berlin Television. After emigrating from the GDR, he worked as dramaturge for theaters in West Germany, and directed in Scandinavia, the USA, Canada, Switzerland, and India. A resident of the USA since 1966, he has directed at numerous Broadway and Off-Broadway theaters and in regional companies. He taught Directing and Dramaturgy at New York University from 1966 to 1984, and since 1984 has been professor of directing with Stanford University’s Drama Department. He has translated and edited three volumes of plays and other writings by Heiner Müller, and his essays have appeared in The Drama Review, Performing Arts Journal, Yale Theater Magazine, Theater Heute, and other journals. He is co-editor of the Brecht Yearbook/Brecht-Jahrbuch for the International Brecht Society, and of Performing Arts Journal.

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CONTEMPORARY THEATRE REVIEW AN INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL

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Index

Adenauer, Konrad 44 Adorno, Theodor 50 Albee, Edward 169, 171, 196n anti-semitism 78, 168–169 Arendt, Erich 128 Aristophanes 53, 55, 58–58 Arnim, Bettine von 157 Artaud, Antonin 49 Atkins, Susan 48 Allende, Salvador 44

Bitterfeld Path (Bitterfelder Weg) 46 Blacher, Boris 15 Bloch, Ernst 50 Borkowski, Dieter 19 Borneman, John 193n, 195n Braband, Jutta 191 Brasch, Thomas 9 Braun, Volker 3, 9, 76–78, 126, 196n, 204–205, 208, 215, 218 Braz, Michael 11n Brecht, Bertolt 1–2, 5–8, 10, 11–21, 21, 24–34, 40–42, 43, 46–48, 50, 64, 68–69, 76, 128, 154, 180, 192, 196n, 200, 209, 210–212, 215–219 Brezhnev, Leonid I. 2, 44 Büchner, Georg 48, 200, 204, 209 Bühr, Siegfried 169–171 Bukharin, Nikolai I. 35 Bunge, Hans 18, 24 Busch, Ernst 9

Baader, Andreas 47, 49 Bahr, Grsela 61n Barthel, Kurt (KuBa) 17 Barlog, Boleslav 11 Baudrillard, Jean 154 Becher, Johannes R. 31, 33–35, 44 Becker, Peter von 206 Beckett, Samuel 11, 78 Beethoven, Ludwig van 33 Benjamin, Walter 79, 129, 156–157 Bennewitz, Fritz 9 Berg, Jochen 4, 196n, 215 Berghaus, Ruth 10, 46 Berlin Workers Uprising (17 June 1953) 33, 41 Bernhardt, Rüdiger 86n Besson, Benno 64, 68–70, 72, 76, 200 Beuys, Joseph 49 Biermann, Wolf 3, 9, 154

Castorf, Frank 64, 72, 129, 150–150, 206, 215 Celan, Paul 190 Chekhov, Anton P. 64 Cold War 24, 43, 45, 50, 86, 156–157, 179, 202 Dahlem, Franz 16 de Bruyn, Günter 205, 218 223

224 INDEX

Dessau, Paul 2, 11–21, 21, 26–27 Domrose, Angelica 10 Dostoevsky, Fyodor M. 49 Dubček, Alexander 66 Duras, Marguerite 61, 72 Dürrenmatt, Friedrich 79 Eckart, Gabriele 61n Eisenstein, Sergei 46 Eisler, Hanns 2, 8, 21, 24, 28–35, 46 Engel, Wolfgang 9 Engels, Thomas 164 Engler, Günther 20 Erpenbeck, Fritz 14, 17, 34 Fadeyev, Alexander A. 46 Fehervary, Helen 61n Felsenstein, Walter 31–31 Feuchtwanger, Leon 154 Fischer, Ernst 29, 31 Flimm, Ingo 207 Formalism/Realism debate 16, 18–19, 34 Foucault, Michel 45, 48, 64n Fühmann, Franz 200 Funke, Christoph 2–3, 5, 166, 171–172, 215 Gandersheim, Roswitha von 55 Garcia Lorca, Federico 66–67 Girnus, Wilhelm 32–33 Gladkov, Fyodor V. 46 Glasnost 3 Glückselig, Egon 15 Goebbels, Joseph 26, 32 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 8, 29, 31–32, 48, 53–56, 68, 190, 200–203, 209 Goffman, Erving 178, 184, 192–193 Goldschmidt, Harry 17, 18 Gorbachev, Mikhail S. 3, 43 Gōring, Hermann 180–181 Grabbe, Christian Dietrich 48, 49 Grashof, Christian 200 Great Depression 24 Grotowohl, Otto 27 Gsovsky, Tatjana 15 Günderrode, Karoline von 157

Gysi, Gregor 168 Hacks, Peter 2, 43, 50–60, 68, 76 Hall, E.T. 192–193n Hauptmann, Gerhart 64 Havemann, Robert 9, 57 Hebbel, Christian Friedrich 49 Heartfield, John (Helmut Herzfelde) 46 Heimer, Horst 70 Hein, Christoph 1–4, 9, 73–81, 81–89, 126, 196n, 200–202, 205, 208–209, 215–218 Heine, Heinrich 26 Heinz, Gabi 71 Hermand, Jost 2, 215 Hermlin, Stephan 3 Hetterle, Albert 9 Hitler, Adolf 14, 168, 179–180 Hoffmann, Jutta 10 Hochhuth, Rolf 10, 180n, 196n Hofmannsthal, Hugo von, 196n Holzschuh, A. 64n Honecker, Erich 2–3, 19, 44, 86, 129, 187, 208 House Un-American Activities Committee 14, 29 Huyssen, Andreas 154n Iden, Peter 167 Ihering, Herbert 17, 19 Jannsen-Zimmermann, Antje 88 Jelenik, Elfriede 205, 214 Jünger, Ernst 49 Kafka, Franz 49 Karge, Manfred 64, 69–70, 165 Karusseit, Ursula 71 Kayser, Karl 8 Khachaturian, Aram I. 16 Khrushchev, Nikita S. 2 King, Marna 4, 196n, 215 Kipp, Heide 71 Kirsch, Sarah 61n Kirst, Klaus Dieter 79, 208 Klee, Paul 157 Kleist, Heinrich von 49, 196n, 209 Knepler, Georg 17

INDEX 225

Kochta, Karla 86 Koerbl, Jörg-Michael 71 Kohl, Helmut 37, 77 Königsdorf, Helga 178, 183 Korean War 16, 20 Kupke, Peter 9 Kurella, Alfred 35 Lambrecht, Christine 61 Lang, Alexander 9, 128, 162–165, 200–206 Langhoff, Matthias 10, 64, 69–70 Langhoff, Thomas 168–169, 206, 215 Laux, Karl 17 Lauter, Hans 11, 16, 19–20 Legal, Ernst 15, 17, 19, 27, 28 Lenin, Vladimir I. 42, 48, 195, 197 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim 66 Lieban, Julius 14 Liefers, Karlheinz 204 Liebmann, Irina 61n Literaturstreit (literature controversy) 4, 166, 190n, 151–160 Lotringer, Sylvére 154 Lu Xun 78 Lucchesi, Joachim 2, 11, 26, 28, 215 Luther, Martin 29 Maaz, Hans-Joachim 156, 178, 183, 185, 192–193, 195n MacArthur, Douglas 16 Malenkov, Georgi M. 31 Mayakovski, Vladimir 44 Mann, Heinrich 154 Mann, Thomas 44 Manson, Charles 47–49 Marcus, J.S. 180n Marcuse, Herbert 45, 214 Maron, Monika 175–178 Marquardt, Fritz 64, 69–70 Martin, Jane 196n Mayer, Hans 44 McKnight, Phil 4, 218 Meech, Anthony 3, 218 Meinhof, Ulrike 47–48 Meltke, Martin 170–172 Meyer, Ernst Hermann 17, 18

Meyer, Gerhard 9 Meyer, Hans 215 Meyerhold, Vsevolod Y. 44, 46 Mielke, Erich 129 Miller, Arthur 169, 196n Mueller-Stahl, Armin 10 Mühe, Ulrike 167 Müller, Elfriede 214 Müller, Heiner 1–4, 9, 35, 37–50, 61, 64, 70, 72, 77, 83–84, 88, 126–128, 151–159, 165–167, 200, 204–205, 208, 215, 218–219 Müller, Inge 72 Münzer, Thomas 29 Muradeli, Vano I. 16, 26 Neher, Caspar 15 Neues Forum 3, 4, 187 New Forum, see Neues Forum New Man 5 Nixon, Richard 48 Notowicz, Nathan 17 Nuremburg Trials 20 Oelschlegel, Vera 11 Olivier, Laurence 64 O’Neill, Eugene 196n Orff, Carl 18 Ostrovsky, Alexander N. 196n Palitzsch, Peter 10 Pehlke, Michael 204 Perestroika 3, 86 Perten, Hanns Anselm 8 Picasso, Pablo 34 Pieck, Wilhelm 20, 27 Piscator, Erwin 10 Plenzdorf, Ulrich 9 Pohl, Klaus 162–164 Prague Spring (1968) 61, 66, 83 Profitlich, Ulrich 2, 218 Raddatz, Fritz J. 154 Radek, Karl B. 31, 35 Rathenow, Lutz 196n Reich, Jens 187–188 Reichel, Käthe, 68

226 INDEX

Reichel, Peter 208 Reimann, Brigitte 157–158 Reinelt, Janelle 210 Reinhardt, Andreas 10 Reinhardt, Max 154 Renne, Berndt 207 Rider, N. Ann 3, 218 Ritzels, Annegret 204 Robinson, David W. 4, 218 Rodenberg, Hans 31 Rohwedder, Detlev-Karsten 180n Roloff-Momin, U. 23n Rosenberg, Hilding 14 Rouse, John 210, 215 Rovit, Rebecca 4, 180n, 218 Rudolph, Johanna 29–31 Rühle, Günther 166, 173 Rülicke, Käthe 17–20 Saeger, Uwe 77 Schatrov, Mikail 9 Schechner, Richard 175n, 183n Scherchen, Hermann 15, 17, 19, 26, 218 Schiller, Friedrich von 10, 48, 66, 68, 76, 79, 196n Schleef, Einar 10 Schleif, Wolfgang 18 Schmitt, Carl 47 Schmitt, Walfriede 3, 61–73 Schnitzler, Arthur 14 Schnitzler, Henry 14 Schölling, Traute 21n, 196, 210, 213 Schönemann, Horst 8, 9, 66–68 Schroeder, Ernst 33 Schroth, Christoph 9–10, 66 Schubert, Helga 72 Seidel, Georg 77, 215 Serafinowicz, Leszek 46 Sessions, Roger 14 Shakespeare, William 49, 53, 58, 64, 66, 165–166, 171–172, 178n, 196n Shaw, George Bernard 66 Shepard, Sam 196 Shostakovich, Dmitri 16 Shvarts, Evgenii 68 Sieg, Katrin 4, 11n, 83n, 166, 190n, 195, 210, 213–214, 218

Silberman, Marc 4, 5, 196n, 210–214, 219 Slansky, Rudolph S. 31 Sobol, Joshua, 196n Socialist Realism 2, 8, 18, 28, 31n, 32, 42, 61, 204 Sohlich, Wolfgang, 210, 214 Solter, Friedo 215 Stahl, Hagen 42 Stalin, Joseph 2, 8, 17, 23, 28, 31, 44, 45, 81 Stanislavski, Konstantin S. 29–31, 64, 68 Stasi (secret police) 4, 81, 126–129, 151–154, 157, 158, 163, 188–192 Stein, Peter 203 Stolper, Armin 9 Stoph, Willi 16, 46 Strauß, Botho 205, 218 Stravinsky, Igor F. 14 Strittmatter, Erwin 8, 33 Stucke, Frank 2, 218 Tabori, George 168, 196n Tate, Sharon 48 Teschke, Holger 218 Thalbach, Katharina 10 Thate, Hilmar 10 Tienanmen Square Massacre 3, 86 Tito, Josip Broz 31 Tragelehn, Bernd K. 10 Treuhandanstalt 180–181 Trolle, Lothar 208, 215 Turner, Victor 181–183 Ulbricht, Walter 16, 42–44 Unseld, Siegfried 48 Vallentin, Maxim 8 van den Berg, Klaus 180 Vietnam War 47 Wagner, Richard 14 Wandel, Paul 16, 17 Wander, Maxie 61n Weber, Carl 2, 210, 215, 219 Weigel, Helene 8, 17, 43, 68, 128 Weigel, Sigrid 154 Weiss, Peter 41

INDEX 227

Wekwerth, Manfred 68, 215 Westphalen, Joseph von 175n Wille, Franz 204 Wilshire, Bruce 192–193 Wilson, Robert 49, 167 Wolf, Christa 3–4, 11n, 72, 81–83, 84, 88, 151–154, 157–159, 166, 190–191, 214 Wolf, Friedrich 5 Wolfram, Gerhard 8, 9 Wollenberger, Vera 191 Zadek, Peter 167 Zhdanov, Andrey A. 16, 26, 31 Zweig, Arnold 19, 31, 32